


yesteryear

by orphan_account



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:00:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 49,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4957852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jongin has a soulmate. - Reincarnation!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	yesteryear

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the kaisommer fic exchange 2015. Thank you so much to absentthoughts, my recipient, for the awesome prompts! Hats off to A for being the coolest person-dash-clincher-beta-reader ever! Hope you'd enjoy!

~O~

**Korea’s first modern postal service**  
\- Robert Nerf, _The Korea Times_

On the evening of Dec. 4, 1884, a banquet was held at the post office in Seoul to celebrate the successful inauguration of Korea’s postal system. Ironically, it was this celebration that helped doom Korea’s postal system as well as other early modernizations.

Just before 10 p.m., a small building near the post office was set afire luring Prince Min Yongik out into an ambush. An assassin severely wounded him but he managed, bleeding profusely, to stagger back into the building. By the end of the night the conspirators had gained a tentative control of the Korean government.

Despite the great confusion and excitement that filled the streets of Seoul, work went on as usual at the post office in Seoul until the afternoon of Dec. 6. Alarmed at the increasing number of Chinese soldiers in the streets and rumors of battle at the palace, the postal employees, Korean and Japanese, abandoned the post office. Over the next couple of days the post office buildings were ransacked and, except for the main hall, were burned by angry mobs of Koreans.

The ill-fated “Gapsin” Coup lasted a mere three days, but its toll was heavy. Many of the conservatives and their foes, the reformers, including Hong Yongsik, died in the fighting or were later executed. Not only was the postal service destroyed and discontinued but so too were Seoul’s first newspaper ― the Hanseong Sunbo ― and the three photograph studios in the capital ― all vilified as Western modernizations and pro-Japanese.

~O~

“The shamans have spoken,” a quivering man beside Jongin says. He cradles his head with his hands in a hushed prayer.

Jongin returns to eyeing his rifle. His head pounds. He digs his fingers into the earth to compose himself. The soil leaks from his fist.

Armed with bayonets and other artillery, the soldiers hunch behind the post office building. Their clothes are muddied from staying near the grasslands for too long, and the soles of their combat footwear are fastened together with rusting hobnails. Jongin looks around for a familiar face in his troop, but finds none. 

Using fresh meat as the first line of offense is pretty ambitious of Kim Okgyun. The Meiji pulled it off, but Jongin has a sick feeling that maybe they can’t. Not right now.

He closes his eyes and takes deep, calming breaths.

Jongin’s stomach feels queasy, perhaps from the nervousness. He’s been jittery ever since they stepped out of the fields and it’s amplified by the uneasiness of the hundred other soldiers, but now, there’s something else tittering around the edges. It prickles, like millions of honeybees buzzing inside a hive, anxiously waiting for the right moment to carry out the queen’s orders. It’s a sensation he’s never felt before, and he clutches his abdomen, fearing that he’d vomit and make a fool of himself.

He figures he probably caught something, when he had no choice but to eat all the rotten things they serve back in the barracks. Week-old rice and overly squashed tomatoes. Jongin’s stomach twists again at the thought.

Behind closed eyelids, there’s a sudden wash of white that sweeps in and roars against his vision. His stomach coils, a chain in his gut lassoing until it springs and latches onto something. Jongin can feel the other end of it throb, like a quiet, beating heart. 

He opens his eyes frantically, and there’s a man crouching in front of him. Unlike the rest of them, he’s facing Jongin instead of keeping an eye at the helm of the door.

Jongin’s gaze flicker to the silver flower badge at the man’s blue collar. _Staff sergeant._

“No need for formalities,” the man says when Jongin scrambles to stand up and bow. “Your name? Your father’s?”

“Kim Jongin, sir. I am the only son of Kim Yeonsuk, a humble fruit merchant. Our family is a big supporter of the cause,” Jongin says. He keeps his eyes on the man’s boots, even if it’s terribly impolite to do so. He really feels like he’s in danger of throwing up.

“How old are you?”

Jongin answers promptly, “Fifteen, sir.”

Jongin hears a sigh, and a mumbled “Too young” being uttered to the cold, desolate air. Then, there’s a small, rectangular object wrapped in a golden foil being thrust into his hand, and Jongin’s eyes snap up. 

The man’s face glistens a little with sweat, but he’s smiling despite the exhaustion.

“S-sir?” Jongin says, trembling. His stomach is doing that strange tugging sensation, pulling him from somewhere.

The man widens his smile, even if it looks wearier than the first. “The Japanese troops have been kind. It is the last of their ration, taken from the Westerners,” he says. “They call it ‘chocolate’.”

“Chocolate,” Jongin repeats, but when the word tumbles out of his lips, it doesn’t sound like the way the man had said it.

The man chuckles good-naturedly, and gestures for Jongin to rip it open and eat. “Have strength, Jongin-ssi. Tonight will be a long battle.”

It looks like the staff sergeant won’t take no for an answer. Jongin bows his head. “Thank you, sir. I…” He inhales. “I’ll do my best.”

The man nods approvingly as Jongin wraps his fingers around the chocolate. He grazes the man’s hand, and Jongin’s stomach lurches, harder this time, and he jerks his hand back abruptly that the chocolate almost falls out of his grasp. 

When he looks up, the sergeant is eyeing him again, the skin on his forehead wrinkling in confusion. They stare at each other for a while. Jongin’s palm sweats under the foil.

The man takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair. He’s shaking a little. “Good luck, Jongin-ssi,” he says quietly, before standing up and moving on to talk to the rest of the troop.

Jongin’s gut protests, and he clutches on his navel even harder. 

He follows the sergeant with his eyes, since the churning in his stomach doesn’t seem like it’s going to die down any time soon, and his chest burns a tiny bit. He’s probably failing in being discreet ― the guy whispering about _sungmo_ and the rest of the gods a while ago regards him now with an odd expression on his face. He then moves to stare at the chocolate on Jongin’s hand, so Jongin pockets it.

He can’t crane his neck anymore when the sergeant decides to walk around the corner. Jongin hangs his head low again, wishing that the peculiar feeling in his stomach would go away soon.

~O~

Fate did not stand by their ranks. Their men were slaughtered, embarrassingly so, and Jongin felt that it was some sort of betrayal that he came out of the whole ordeal bruised and shaken up, but still very much alive.

He files with the rest of the mourning families at the registry. He trudges on the rocky path with no sense of purpose, until he's facing the man behind the desk. His _gat_ droops quite wretchedly over his forehead. "Name?" the man says in a monotone.

"I do not know," Jongin says. 

“What? Then why are you —”

"He is a staff sergeant. Third division."

"The third division has four staff sergeants, son," the man says quite exasperatedly. "Find out his name first and come back later. You are holding the line."

"Please. I need to know if he is alive," Jongin says. The fingers in his front pocket curl around the scraps of foil from the chocolate bar he viciously ate in blind hunger during the second day. "He has black hair and pale skin. His eyes are round and wide, and his lips are ―"

"There are five hundred people in the list ― do you expect me to know every single one of you? I need a name."

"He is very kind," Jongin says. "Perhaps you know of his kindness."

The man frowns. "If he truly is kind, he would have pulled you out of this suicide mission that bastard Okgyun concocted." He waves Jongin off. "Come back with a name, but do know that you are wasting your breath. Less than fifty of the soldiers survived. I rather doubt that your friend is still alive, even if the gods hold him in reverence for his kindness."

Jongin bows grimly and leaves the register. His chest aches dully, and his stomach keeps on protesting. His eyes fall on the small puddle at his feet, and his shoulders sag when he sees his reflection staring back at him, lost.

Jongin can't describe what it is that he's feeling. He’s not alone. His family is okay back home, and he’s alive. He survived. But somehow, it doesn’t seem right.

He feels sad. He feels miserable and alone, as if there’s a part of him that has been severed without warning, the chain breaking as savage ice chinks the steel braces. He feels really lonely.

Jongin's lips quiver, until he finally gives in and cries. He’s at a good distance from the registry, so there’s no one around to see him.

~O~

Jongin wakes up to a fire around him. Oddly, he doesn't feel the burn when the flames lick at his skin and clothes. He stands up, shakes off the dirt on his trousers, and runs wherever his legs will take him. He crosses his arms over his face as he lunges to the tall barrier of fire, and he makes it to the other side. Jongin peers down on his body. There are no scorch marks.

He feels _fine_ , and that's the strangest thing of all, because he suddenly realizes he's walking over a path with jagged rocks that could pierce through the skin on his feet. There's no blood and no pain. Strange.

The faint wailing all around spooks Jongin even more, coating his arms with goosebumps. He looks up to find, instead of a ceiling, a thick cloud of black smoke. 

"Hello?" Jongin croaks out, and it echoes eerily until it fades behind the disturbing wailing sound. He wonders if he's having a nightmare.

Not knowing what else to do, he follows the path. He remembers a flash, and pain shooting from his calf and spreading everywhere. He remembers his head hitting a boulder before blacking out and waking up to the fire. 

An icy finger of fear slides down Jongin spine, but he forges on.

He's almost at the end when he stops. There are three people behind a long, maple table, very much like the desk inside the meeting hall where Jongin swore his allegiance to Okgyun’s cause in front of the presiding officers. 

From this distance, Jongin can tell that these people are foreigners. People from the West. His hand flies to his side, but he doesn't have his dagger with him.

"Now, now, don't be shy!" the one in the middle calls. "Come here, _monsignor_! We can't assess you properly if you're standing all the way there."

Jongin blinks. He's definitely not speaking in Korean, but Jongin understood everything he said perfectly. He gapes at them, arms shaking.

"Oh, good lord, we’ve got another one of those," the woman on the left says. She places a hand under her chin. "Come forward, Mr. Kim. We promise we won't let Cerberus eat you."

_What in the world is a cerberus_? Jongin glances back, and it seems like he has no other choice but to move forward. The path disappeared.

Jongin goes and stands before them, and he keeps his back ramrod straight the way the _byeongjang_ thought him to. The three folders on the desk are heavily inked with Jongin’s name on the cover.

“I think introductions are at an order.” The man in the middle bounces on his seat excitedly. His bushy beard drops low enough to conceal the whole of his neck, and his nose is strong, but bulbous at the end. His robes are as red as his funny-looking hat, and his light green eyes brighten when his gaze lands on Jongin’s filthy clothes. “But before that, how many garamas shall I give you for that fine specimen of silk ―”

The woman snorts. “Save that for later, Marco. There’re still a lot of them waiting to be judged. Let’s go right ahead and get this over with.”

Jongin’s stomach drops. _Judged_? “Umm, excuse me,” he says. “But… who are you? And what ― what am I doing here?”

“You are dead!” the man, Marco, chirps. One side of his mouth quirks to form a happy smile. “Deceased! Passed on! Whatever you’d like to phrase it.” He nudges the woman with a wink. “You may have the pleasure of explaining the rest, Marge. You’re the writer here.”

The woman rolls her eyes. Jongin can tell that she’s been doing that a lot. She turns to Jongin, and he inadvertently shivers; her gaze is piercing. “I am Margaret Fuller,” she says. “The idiot on my right is Marco Polo from Great Italy, and at the other end of this table is Sir Thomas Jefferson, former president of the United States and author of the Declaration of Independence of 1776.” She says the last words with profound respect.

“Oh yes, right! Tom’s a writer, too,” Marco quips, grinning afterwards. He pats Thomas’ shoulder. “Sorry, _monsignor_. Have to hand the ball to the lady’s court once in a while.”

Thomas ignores him as Margaret throws a glare at Marco. “We have been appointed as judges of the departed souls for this century and the next, or until when the higher-ups thinks is wise,” Thomas says to Jongin. “At your service.”

Jongin can’t speak. He’s… dead? He looks down on his chest, rising and falling like it used to. He clamps his mouth shut tightly, and panics when he finds he can hold his breath longer than he used to without his head hurting.

Is he in hell? The wailing he heard earlier ― was that the sound of troubled souls lamenting for retribution? Is Jongin going to be one of them?

What about his family? Are they still alive?

Thomas opens the folder and leafs through the pages. Jongin trembles as Thomas runs his finger over the blocks of paragraphs. “Hmmm. You’ve lived a remarkably short life, Mr. Kim. A grand total of twenty-two years, five months and seven days. No notable achievements either, aside from becoming a trooper at such a young age.”

“I… I am sorry,” Jongin mumbles and bows, not knowing what else there is to say or do. His mind reels. 

Margaret shakes her head. “Oh, no. You don’t have to apologize for anything. It’s just that it’s going to be difficult for us to know where to place you, since you haven’t exactly done anything that stands out enough to put you in Up or Below.”

Jongin wants to ask what is Up and Below, but thinks that they’d probably explain it to him later, once Thomas is done reading. 

“I have killed a lot of people,” Jongin confesses. He recalls firing one bullet after another, moving forward to another direction as quick as he could, refraining from looking directly at the sunken faces of his fellow countrymen he’d hurt.

“Doesn’t say here you did,” Thomas says, not looking up from the papers. He turns another page. “You’ve always shot them at the leg. They probably won’t be able to walk again, but you’ve never exactly killed anyone.”

“However, violence is not something to be condoned,” Margaret intones. “It might be hypocritical of me to say so, since all three of us are children of war. But as someone who witnessed needless bloodshed, your participation in the suffering of eighteen other people in Seoul and Chemulpo is something that I will consider heavily.”

“You seem like a good person who’s made a lot of bad choices,” Marco says. His moustache quivers as he laughs. “So, Monsignor Kim. What are we going to do with you?”

Jongin bites his lower lip. He’s not exactly religious. He stopped praying to the gods and visiting the _sadang_ in the mountains when he was twelve. He wishes that he’d paid more attention to what the shamans were saying.

There are three strangers judging the fate of Jongin’s afterlife. Jongin has no idea what to do, or how to react, if they somehow decide that he had been a horrible person for most of his life and put him where all those dreadful wailing noises come from.

“Huh,” Marco says suddenly. He’s circling a passage in Jongin’s file with a quill. “Says here you met your soulmate at age fifteen. That’s pretty rare, son.”

Jongin cranes his neck forward. “Soulmate?” he says.

Margaret quirks a thick eyebrow at Marco. “Soulmates is a Western concept, Marco. He probably doesn’t understand.”

“Nonsense! Even the Chinese have it!” He swivels his chair to turn to Jongin. He looks absolutely ecstatic. “Ever heard of _The Red String of Fate_ , _monsignor_?”

“Uhh, no.”

Marco frowns and shakes his head. “Pitiful,” he says, mournful. “Absolutely pitiful. You are one of the lucky few who have been graced by Circumstance for a chance to meet and bind with the other half of your soul, but you were ignorant of this massive opportunity. What a shame.”

Jongin’s jaw slacks. “Other half? Of my what?” He’s not sure if he heard it right. “Soul?”

“Yes. Human souls are incomplete, such as myself. I am a fragment of a much bigger entity, purer,” Margaret tells him. “Though I must say that one does not need to look for the other soul which one is destined to be bound to. A soul can stand alone.” 

“But Jongin encountered his,” Marco says in awe. “I have lived a considerably long life, but I never had the pleasure of meeting my soulmate in those sixty-nine years Time has blessed me with. It’s a marvel.”

“He’s not exactly lucky,” Thomas interjects. “His soulmate died after a few hours Mr. Kim had met him.”

Jongin’s supposedly dead heart startles. “H-he died? What?” he stammers. “Who was he? How did he die?”

“Can’t say, if you don’t know who it is,” Thomas says before smiling at him. Thin locks of silver hair fall to the side when he tilts his head. “I’m afraid it’s a strictly confidential matter. Anyone who died within this time period has to go through this hall, and we can’t divulge any information about the souls who have stood before us.”

Marco laughs and props his feet on the table. “But you already gave him a hint.” He smirks at the younger man. “Think fast, Jongin! At the battle in Seoul, who was the last person you talked to that stood out among the rest? Think. Trust your gut ― a wise traveller always trusts his gut.”

“I ―” Jongin can only think of the cold year of 1884, and the chocolate bar that had melted on his tongue and kept him warm and alive. He remembers a tired smile and unblinking eyes staring at him with mild befuddlement, as Jongin’s fingers tingled and his stomach twisted after their hands had touched. Seven years later, and it seems that Jongin hasn’t exactly forgotten about it after all. “I… I think…”

“There you go!” Marco cheers, beaming wide at Jongin’s flushed expression.

Margaret looks over at Thomas. “You meant to do that,” she accuses without heat.

Thomas smiles at her enigmatically. “I haven’t been here long enough, but I’ve done the math. It is rare. Just as Marco said.”

“One in a hundred million,” Marco informs them. He claps his hands together and sighs. “Most of them end up in tragedy, like this boy over here, which is such a sad thought.” He tuts. “We might want to have a talk with the higher-ups about this. It’s such a waste. A lot of people might have not ended up in the Pit if they met their soulmates and became happy.”

“But I do not know his name,” Jongin blurts, breaking his muddled thoughts, and all three of the judges snap their attention back to him. He fidgets, and continues, “Can I… can you tell me? Please?”

“I deeply apologize, Mr. Kim. That’s not our call to make,” Margaret says.

Jongin’s heart is beating too fast for him to catch up, threatening to crack his ribcage. That kind man with the sad smile is his _soulmate_ , whatever that is, and Jongin’s insides bleat and tug at the knowledge of meeting someone who’s apparently supposed to be very important to him, and letting him get away and die. 

“Can I see him?” Jongin tries again. His stomach is whining ― soulmates must be really a big thing. “He is here now, right?” 

“Do you want to say hi?” Thomas says. He sounds amused.

“Uhh, yes,” Jongin settles. “And thank him, if I could. He was nice.”

“Well, I apologize again that I can’t say any more about your bond person,” Margaret says. “He is, I believe, an irrelevant matter to your case. Now, since we have insufficient material to gauge whether or not you are fit for either Up or Below, we’ll have to make you choose.” She waves for Jongin to come closer and places two sheets of paper on the table. They look like contracts.

“We have this usually when people die below the age of thirty, unless you’ve done something remarkable in your early years that we can decide the right place,” Margaret explains. She slides her quill towards Jongin’s hand. “The first one is that you’d live on Earth again until it’s time. In the second agreement, you’ll have to work in The Fields and prove yourself in ten, horrifying trials. Read them carefully and choose.”

Jongin’s eyes widen as he plows through words he doesn’t understand. “What do most people choose?” he asks.

Marco grins. “Why, silly boy, The Fields of course! Ten trials are _nothing_ compared to all the things you have to suffer back on Earth.”

Jongin pauses, and looks over the contracts again. Quick agony in The Fields, or a slow burn in the land of the living? The golden seal at the bottom of each paper glints beside the thin line where he has to affix his signature with indelible ink.

_The man_ , Jongin realizes with a halting jerk. He wasn’t that much older than Jongin, perhaps. He probably died before he reached thirty. “What did my soulmate choose?” he says.

The three figures turn to each other, their eyes having a silent discussion, and Jongin instinctively knows that he’s right. That person, whoever he is, had been given a choice, too. 

“We are not at liberty to answer that,” Margaret says snippily. “Now choose, Mr. Kim. Contrary to popular belief, we don’t have an eternity.”

Jongin stills his breathing. His stomach has quieted into a sloppy kind of churning now, a still unpleasant feeling, but bearable. He’s going to have to trust what Marco said earlier. “I choose…” he mumbles. He grips the quill tightly and signs Kim Jongin on the first contract.

Marco erupts into a very loud laugh, and Thomas smiles at the side as Margaret rolls up the contracts. 

“You two really are soulmates,” Marco remarks, slowly clapping his hands. “Oh boy, this is going to be fun!”

Margaret shushes him before going back to look at Jongin. She purses her lips and says, “You’ll be having the preliminaries at The Boat by The Dock. Marco will take you there and explain everything about your transit to your next life along the way. Do you have any more questions?”

Jongin has billions of questions, but he decides that it’s best to choose the one that he needs to ask the most, “In my next life on Earth, will I still remember everything that happened on my first?”

That seems to shock both Marco and Margaret, but Thomas doesn’t seem fazed at all. He closes Jongin’s folder, the mysterious smile still in place. “You’re going to look for him,” he says, a statement.

Jongin can feel his cheeks heat up as Marco guffaws again. Margaret gapes at him like he’s out of his mind. The embarrassment is kind of ridiculous to feel since he’s supposedly dead.

“It will be impossible,” Margaret claims, eyes still wide. “It’s not guaranteed that you’ll meet again for the second time.”

Jongin squares his shoulders. “It will get me through,” he says. “I will need a goal.” He’s good with goals. He kept himself alive and went home after every battle because his family needs him. Jongin only slipped once in his entire life, though, and that mistake ultimately landed him here.

“Soulmates are not important, and definitely not worth the trouble,” Margaret insists, and Jongin wants to believe that she’s right.

The chain in his stomach revolts and coils ferociously inside him. “Is it bad if we meet again?”

“Well, no,” Margaret replies after a while. “It won’t be a problem, but it’s not… something that I would choose for myself, really. Looking for my destined other half, that is.”

But Jongin’s already found him. He has seen him, touched him, spoken to him, at least once. He remembers feeling that particular shade of anxiousness that made him want to hurl, but he also recalls feeling that soothing blanket of white, and the happiness and excitement of holding someone else’s gaze for a long time.

Even if the chances are low, Jongin just wants to see him again.

“Memories are not good things to carry for people who will live again,” Margaret speaks up again, a warning, and Jongin gulps. “It will be more of a hindrance than an advantage. Are you willing to take on that extra burden?”

“Yes,” Jongin says, and then sighs inwardly. He really needs to think things through, sometimes. He hopes that in his next life, he’d be more sensible.

“Alright,” Thomas says as he clears the table. “That’s settled then. Marco will take you to The Dock while we get ready for the next soul. Marco?”

“On it, monsignor.” Marco leaps from his seat and dashes towards Jongin. He puts an arm around Jongin’s shoulders, and Jongin balks at the fact that he couldn’t feel it at all.

In front of Jongin’s very eyes, a new path forms out of the puffs of smoke. It’s less sinister than the bed of pointy rocks Jongin had to take before, but the difference doesn’t matter that much, apparently. He’s a soul now. He’s dead.

Jongin still can’t believe it.

“I see it still hasn’t sunken it yet,” Marco says with glee. The path behind them slowly unravels with each step as new bricks pop up in front of them. “You just wait when you get into your second life. It’ll give you the shock of the century.”

A thought occurs. “What about my body?” Jongin squeaks. “Will I get a new one?”

“Not necessarily,” Marco says. His hold around Jongin’s shoulders slackens as he makes wild gestures with his hands. “Most of the time, your body won’t be reincarnated with your soul. But since we’ll be skipping the skinny-dipping part, you’re going to live in the same shell, so to speak. It’ll make transition easier.”

“Skinny-dipping?” 

“Usually we’d dump the people who chose the first contract in the Fountain of Forgetfulness.” Marco strokes his beard. Some of them tangle against his fingers, and he pulls at them with a resigned sigh. “The water will dissolve your previous memories, if you chose to part with them. But since you want to keep yours, just imagine, waking up in another era with a different face. Difficult, isn’t it? The first few cases we had that were like yours, they had trouble adjusting to their new identities.”

“So I will look exactly the same?” Jongin says, his heart leaping in hope. Maybe he can do this. Maybe he’ll succeed in this his second chance he’s been granted. No guns, and no wars. And perhaps ― 

“What about him? My soulmate?” he muses out loud. “Is he…?” He feels himself deflate a little. How is Jongin going to find him if he doesn’t look like what he used to be anymore? It would take more than a single lifetime to scour the earth for him. Margaret was right. It’s impossible.

Marco gives him a long, hard look, before whipping his head right and left. He stops, and the path stops, and Jongin has to stop too or he’ll fall into the abyss.

The older man grasps Jongin by his shoulders. “Marge is going to kill me for this.” He exhales shortly, and before making a grim expression. “Are you serious, _monsignor_? Do you really want to find him?”

“Yes, of course,” Jongin says. “I mean, it would be very nice to see him again.”

The look Marco gives him is inscrutable. “Monsignor Kim, soulbinding is a very serious business, especially here in the afterlife. And you are the first in the last millennia to have met the other half of your soul on your first life. The most famous one we had was Helen and Paris. It was such a long time ago, but it caused a lot of trouble.” His grip tightens as he whispers, “I’ll do everything within my power to make searching for him a bit easier for you, but I have to be sure that you have every intention of finding him. Do you understand?”

Jongin licks his lips, and then nods.

“Do you swear on your soul?” Marco says firmly. “This is a promise of one traveller to another. Will you not stop until you find him?”

“I promise,” Jongin replies. “With all my heart.”

Marco seems pleased enough with this and lets go. He claps Jongin’s back and gestures for them to move again. Jongin, a little dazed, follows him.

The journey to The Dock is quiet for a while, until Marco lightens up and tells him of the last five hundred years he spent as one of the judges and keepers of The Gateways. Margaret and Thomas were the replacements of Hildegard and Lao Tzu, who both opted for an early retirement at the Oasis. 

“Oasis?” Jongin says. There’s a large body of water right ahead, and a boat that could probably carry only five people. “What is that?”

“Part of Up. It’s the ultimate headquarters of the goody-goodies,” Marco says and grins at the gloomy sky. “Some are like you and your soulmate, who opted for a second lifetime to clean their ledgers. Some of them even tried for third and fourth.” He ruffles Jongin’s hair. “So be a bit more optimistic, _monsignor_! If you work hard enough, you might end up there when it’s time.”

They stop where the coal-black sand starts sifting under Jongin’s slippers. It’s more of a lake than a sea, with the mountains bordering the still, murky waters, but Jongin is not wholly sure. Miles of fog stretch as the younger man looks yonder, and Marco nudges Jongin aboard the boat.

A man holding a big pole that seems to be more of a make-shift paddle is eyeing Jongin expectantly. Jongin steps into the boat, and it sinks at the added weight. The whole vessel feels like it will tip over at the slightest movement. Jongin sweats as he tries to balance himself.

“Safe travels, _monsignor_!” Marco says, waving. Jongin wants to wave back, but the boat keeps on rocking dangerously, and so he gives the traveller a strained smile instead.

The man with the pole blocks Jongin’s line of vision of the shore. “Edge,” he says.

Jongin stares at him dumbly. “What?”

“Edge. Near the edge.” The man jerks his chin forward. “Sit.”

“O-oh. Yes.” Jongin slowly moves, the boat swaying as he goes, until he finally lowers his butt on the wood. He lets out a shaky breath after.

The man’s mouth curves in vague amusement before he pushes his pole and sets sail for Earth.

The whole lake is calm and creepy at the same time. Nothing moves except for them, the boat and the ripple of water below. The fog thickens as they come closer to the other side, and the roll of mountains start to disappear when the sky dims.

Jongin doesn’t know what to expect, or feel. He’s still not sure if he’s dead ― he doesn’t feel any different, and this might be one of those times where his imagination got ahead of him. It wouldn’t be such a surprise. He once dreamt of leading the Korean and Japanese reformers to victory against the Conservatives, and that there would be a world of peace and prosperity afterwards.

“Not bad,” the stranger blurts, and Jongin jumps on his seat a little in shock.

Jongin fondles his aching neck. “Err… what?”

The man smiles. His front teeth are yellow and rotting. “Last part of dream,” he explains. “Not bad. Good dream.”

Jongin’s mouth falls open. “Oh.” He feels tongue-tied.

The man grins, but doesn’t say anything anymore.

After a few minutes of nothing but a swirling expanse of fog, Jongin hears something as they approach. A stream of water, falling from a high place. It gets louder, and Jongin panics.

“Wait, ahjussi!” Jongin cries out. “There’s a waterfall right ahead! We have to turn back!”

The man shakes his head. “This okay.” His paddles grow stronger and they launch towards the steady current that speeds up as they go. “Close eyes.”

“Sorry?”

“Eyes.” The man mimes a hand forcing his eyes to shut. “Close.”

Jongin has no idea what’s going on, but he does as he’s told. He clamps his hands over his eyes and doesn’t dare peek, even if the rest of him is screaming to jump off the boat and swim towards safety. Judging from the roar of the water below, it’s going to be a high dive.

He can feel the whole boat lurch and stagger as rocks start edging the fall. Jongin holds on tight to the wooden braces, eyes still shut, and his stomach heaves.

“This is crazy!” Jongin yells, and they plummet.

Jongin doesn’t remember opening his mouth to scream. He can hear himself, though, but it’s muffled, as if he is shouting underwater, and the bubbles that manage to pop to the surface are the only evidence that he’s even there.

Jongin falls, and falls, and falls…

…

Somewhere in a quaint town in Korea, a newborn baby cries.

~O~

**The king’s letter**  
\- Lee Hangbok, _Korea Joongang Daily_

The recent discovery of a diplomatic letter written by King Gojong provided the strongest piece of evidence of Korea’s objections to colonization by Japan.

The letter took the form of a telegram written in Korean by the king. In it, he issues an order to the Korean minister to Germany, Min Cheolhun, which says: _“Japanese officials came to the palace with their army and forced me to sign a document they had prepared. After that Japan named a governor and forced us to give up our diplomatic rights. Such a crime is unacceptable under international law. You_ [Min Cheolhun] _have to alert Germany and ask for help. The last hope for me and for the empire is Germany and international law.”_

The order was translated and handed over to the German foreign ministry on Nov. 24, 1905, but with no response. King Gojong then sent a personal letter, dated May 19, 1906, to German Emperor Wilhelm II, but internal affairs within the German foreign ministry prevented the letter from ever reaching the emperor.

Apart from the pleas he made to foreign countries, King Gojong also sent a secret mission to an international peace conference held in The Hague, the Netherlands, in 1907 to let other nations know that the treaty with Japan had been signed under coercion and without the consent of the king and the public.

The mission failed, and the outcome proved disastrous for Korea. It prompted a member of the secret delegation, Lee Jun, to commit suicide. It also led Japan to force the king to abdicate the throne to his second son, Sunjong, the last king of Korea. Sunjong remained in power for just three years before he announced in August 1910 that the country had ceded all of its power to Japan.

~O~

“Hun-ah! I need you to go to the store and buy prunes and cabbage for me.”

Oh right, Jongin thinks. He’s Lee Hun, now, the twelve-year-old son of farmers Yoon Gayoung and Lee Daewon. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget. 

Jongin stands up and ties the belt around his _baji_ , making sure he’s wiped the grime off his face before dashing towards the kitchen.

“The money’s on the table,” Gayoung, his mother, says without turning to him. She’s busy tending to the boilers. “The basket’s at the back door.”

“Okay.” Jongin scoops the coins from the rattan top, dumping it all to the small pouch his mother has sewn on his shirt. “Prunes and cabbage?”

“And tomatoes,” Gayoung adds, and then frowns at the state of Jongin’s hair. “Clean that rat’s nest first before you head out, dear.”

Jongin hugs his mom’s waist and slings the basket to his arm. He sets off, careful not to step on the rice paddies as he jumps from one thickle bush to another. He flattens his hair with his fingers as he runs towards the clay road.

He’s in Kwangju now, far, far away from Seoul, his first home. Jongin doesn’t know how to get there, so he has no idea how his old family is holding up. He’s not even sure if they’re still alive.

Sometimes, it can get confusing, with the new layer of memories coating over the old ones. Jongin started recovering his memories at age seven, and he remembers the massive headaches he got whenever he couldn’t separate the old memories from the new ones. He often mistook Gayoung for Hana, his first mother, and kept on waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweat, screaming about bombs and gunfire. His new family grew a bit concerned about his welfare after that. 

It’s better now, though. Jongin realizes that the happy memories come much faster than the bad ones, and it helps. He still gets headaches, and sometimes he still has nightmares, but now he has an idea what to look out for.

There are frequent images that flash through his mind when he gets ready for bed, memories that seem to be much stronger than the rest. A dark room, full of people screaming, and the faint smell of expensive spirit in the air. Jongin always feels sad about that, but after, there’s always a fleeting face that appears. There’s a smile that has the fireflies in Jongin’s stomach come alight, and it’s a smile that Jongin always takes with him wherever he goes when he wakes up. 

Soon, Jongin finds himself surrounded by fruit stalls and dozens of shops selling lamb meat. Next to the locksmith around the corner, men of almost all ages have gathered around the gambling mat, laughing and yodeling. The roads are far better here than the ones near Jongin’s home since the army and the trucks pass by here once in a while, the lanes wider and smoothed out. Girls play _neoltwiggi_ in a separate alley while the boys trade marbles and wrestle one another. 

“Ahjumma!” Jongin says once he’s reached the vegetable store. “Hello!”

“Oh, Hun-ah!” An old lady with a sizeable straw hat over her salt-and-pepper hair says. She hunches over him and fixes his messy brown hair for him. She goes by the name Duri. Jongin likes Duri ahjumma, because she always gives him extra oranges whenever Jongin comes by the marketplace.

“Take a bath after this, Hun,” Duri tells him fondly. “You stink.”

“Okay,” Jongin says brightly. He holds out his wicket basket. “Can I have four _hon’s_ worth of cabbages, and around two for tomatoes, please? And do you have any prunes?”

“We’re all out of prunes, dear. But we do have tomatoes and cabbage, fresh from the fields!” She beams. “Is your dad coming home from service?”

Jongin nods. “Mom says he’ll be back just in time for dinner. Haneul and I are making mud castles to welcome him back.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet of you kids?” Duri says. She fills up the basket and hands it to Jongin in exchange for the coins. “Run along, now. Maybe your father will be back sooner than you think.”

Jongin gives her what he supposes is his most brilliant smile before leaping back to the front alley. He waddles through the crowd of people and steps into the road as he checks the contents of his basket. There are five oranges squeezed right next to the cabbages. Jongin grins. Excellent.

Suddenly, he hears an ear-splitting shriek, but Jongin looks up a little too late. He first sees the terror in the eyes of a young lady carrying bread wrapped in a cheesecloth before his gaze locks on a hood of a moving vehicle, speeding right ahead until the bumper smacks him on the face. Jongin blacks out in an instant.

~O~

Margaret is smirking at him now. “So. Twelve years.”

Jongin fights back a scowl. “I’m sorry,” he starts. “I wasn’t…”

“You got hit by an automobile. Pretty nasty hit.” Marco shakes his head. “You know, I’m starting to think that having you run around with your memories is a bad idea.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Jongin says. “I keep forgetting that things are no longer what they used to be.”

Thomas’ eyebrows shoot upward. He pinches the tip of his quill with his two fingers. “You’re saying you’re going to try again?”

Jongin nods gravely. He tries to give them all a steady look. “I won’t give up,” he says.

Margaret’s smile downturns instantly. “If you focus your energies on finding your soulmate instead of doing your best in becoming a better person, then I don’t think you’re going to end up in the Oasis like you wanted to,” she says.

Jongin exhales through his mouth. “Yeah, I know. But I promised I’d look for him.” His eyes unconsciously fleet to Marco’s approving expression. “And I never said I can’t do both. I’ll be good, and I’ll find him.”

Thomas chuckles, and all three of them look at him in surprise. “Now I can see why Marco’s getting so fired up for this,” he says genially. His fingers are coated with ink. “I approve your request, Mr. Kim. One more life, until you’re satisfied.”

Jongin feels like his knees are going to give out under him. “Thank you,” he says, voice filled with relief. He bows deeply.

“Don’t mess it up,” Margaret says starchily, and hands him a fresh contract to sign.

~O~

**Korea under Park Chunhee**  
\- Henry Liu, _Asia Times_

After 15 years of repressive government, Syngman Rhee was forced out of office into exile on April 26, 1960, by student mass demonstrations against widespread corruption and despotic rule. On May 16, 1961, amid general political chaos and paralysis, Major General Park Chung-hee, carried out a military coup d'etat followed by an anti-corruption campaign that was welcome by the general public.

As president, Park instituted central planning and industrial policy and looked to prewar Japan as a model for developing the South Korean economy. The Park administration was ultra-nationalistic and anti-market, harking back to a Confucian culture that does not hold merchants in high esteem. Park nationalized Korean banks and imposed strict control on foreign exchange to use sovereign credit to develop the economy through industrial policy and subsidized export, taking advantage of US anti-communism to get preferential access to the US market during the Cold War.

Park leaned on the chaebol, large family-controlled conglomerates that responded profitably to government development plans, reserving basic industries such as steel for state-owned enterprises. Park proved that a planned economy with intelligent application of industrial policy was a more effective system for promoting rapid industrialization and national prosperity for a developing economy than market fundamentalism. 

Under Park, South Korea sent 300,000 troops to Vietnam, and was rewarded by the United States with war purchases that helped the Korean economy and political tolerance that consolidated his rule.

~O~

Jongin grabs his coat and runs down to the delivery room. The air-conditioning has been wonky since Thursday, and the hallways are oppressive as he pummels down through them. He meanders through the crowd of men in lab coats and nurses and bloodied children and crying mothers. It’s New Year’s, so the hospital is packed.

“She alright?” Jongin asks one of the nurses. Carla, he thinks is the name she’d like to be called. Some of the people in the hospital like baptizing themselves with new American ones as a running joke.

“Yes, she’s doing okay,” Carla says. She makes way for Jongin to scramble towards the beat-up heart monitor. “I’ve been asking if she wanted anesthetic, but she keeps on telling me no.”

Jongin nods and turns to the woman. Her chart says Lee Sooyoun in widely spaced blocks. “Sooyoun-ssi, this is _seriously_ going to hurt without the anesthetic,” he says, wiping the sweat off her forehead with his gloved hand.

“I know it will. Woojin is not my first son,” Sooyoun says. She gasps and writhes on the bed, and the nurses flurry over to her side. They hold her arms like bondages.

Jongin lowers his arms to her raised feet. The contractions are not sporadic now — right on schedule. He pushes the catheter away. 

“Now,” Jongin says, steadying his hands. “Sooyoun-ssi, I want you to breathe in slowly.”

The woman screams.

~O~

Jongin loosens the knot on his tie and undoes three of the buttons of his polo. His arms ache, his neck is sore, and his jaw creaks when he opens his mouth to gulp in bland air. He’s been up and about for thirty seven hours, running only in caffeine and adrenaline, and all he wants to do is to curl up in his office and pretend that it’s okay to stop saving more lives until he’s saved his own.

But then his pager beeps, the one he’s saved for Diagnostics, and Jongin closes his eyes and groans. He plants his face flat on the desk before staggering out of his chair.

He makes a sloppy Windsor and slips his coat back on, pushing the door open with his free hand. The lights keep Jongin from banging his crotch against the armrests of the waiting benches around the hallway.

“Sir,” a voice calls out. “Sir. Sir.”

Jongin stops and looks down to his left. There’s a scrawny-looking kid in a midnight black tweed coat, the cuffs rough and the threads sticking out. His shoes look clean but worn. Second-hand.

Jongin tries to smile warmly enough to thaw the frost of the winter’s day. “Oh, hey there.” 

“You’re Doctor Min Taeil,” the boy says, sounding surprisingly sure of himself.

“Yeah. Found your guy,” Jongin says. He turns around so they could be face to face. “What can I do for you?”

“You have a patient named Lee Sooyoun, right?” the boy says.

Jongin’s too surprised that he slips from the usual patient-confidentiality clause. “Yes. Why?”

The boy licks his lips. They look cold. “I’m her son,” he answers. He bows deeply. “I’m Jinsung.”

“Oh. Right, she did mention that you’re here,” Jongin says. He wants to reach out and ruffle the boy’s hair, like he usually does with kid patients, but the air around Jinsung tells him that the gesture wouldn’t be taken as something friendly. “It’s nice to meet you, Jinsung-ssi. Have you met your baby brother already?” He chuckles. “He’s adorable.”

“He is,” Jinsung says. He then pulls out a folded sheet of paper from his pants, scribbled with what seems like a to-do list. Jongin’s eyes widen.

Jinsung coughs a little to clear his throat. “My mom’s allergic to strawberries and peanuts,” he informs Jongin. “She gets cramps a lot. ‘Round her thighs. Her neck becomes stiff when she sits upright for too long, so I usually —” He presses two of his fingers on his own nape. “Massage her around here, to relieve the knots and stuff.”

Jongin doesn’t realize he has his mouth open wide until his lower jaw starts to ache. “Uhh, Jinsung-ssi,” he begins. “Where’s your dad?” 

Jinsung glares at him. “He’s not coming, so you’ll have to talk to me,” he says tightly. “Why? Does that bother you?”

“No. No, it doesn’t.” Jongin sinks to his knees to level their height, and he sees it.

Brown-black eyes with unusual depth. Thick eyebrows and stubby nose. The only things that look out of place are the long unkempt hair and the harsh edge in his cheekbones.

Jongin has to inch back and take a lungful of air, his whole body trembling in shock. It’s _him_. Jongin has found him again.

“Are you okay, sir?” Jinsung says, demands, and Jongin has to shudder away the nervousness, joy, relief, and sadness before pasting a new smile on his face.

“Jinsung — can I call you that? — it’s alright. The cafeteria downstairs doesn’t serve food with common allergens. And thank you for telling me that. There’s nothing about her cramps and stiff neck in her medical history.” Jongin leans in, careful. Jinsung’s eyes are really as wide and dark as he remembers. “How old are you?”

Jinsung definitely doesn’t like that question. His mouth tightens. “Fourteen,” he says, turning back to his list again. “She gets a cold easily, so you have to change the sheets often. She always wheezes a lot in the morning…” His gaze flickers at Jongin for a moment. “Maybe she needs medicine for that.”

“It’s rhinitis,” Jongin says. “Don’t worry. It’s very common. We’ll get her something for that.”

Jinsung looks at him tentatively. “How much is it?” he questions. “Is it expensive?”

“Oh. It’s…” Jongin scratches his chin. “It’s okay, Jinsung. Sooyoun-ssi gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and your mother and brother are both fine. She’s a little tired, but she’ll be discharged as soon as she gets strong enough. You don’t have to worry so much.”

Jinsung lowers his head. “It’s a public hospital, and it’s New Years,” he mutters. “There are a lot of people around.”

_I have to make sure you’re taking care of her right_ , is what fourteen-year-old Jinsung wants to tell Jongin, in a way they’ve all been taught since primary school. Polite, discreet, and implicit.

Jongin doesn’t succumb to the urge to frown and hug Jinsung tight until it hurts. Instead, he places a hand over Jinsung’s shoulder, in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “You’re going to make a great doctor, Jinsung,” Jongin says.

Jinsung leans onto his touch slightly. “Really?” 

“You have a knack for details.” Jongin chuckles. “I have this strange feeling that you’re going to be a better doctor than I am, and quite frankly, I’m the best of the lot here.”

“Maybe.” Jinsung hands the doctor his list. It’s very elaborate, tiny blocks of Hangeul in bullet form.

Jongin waves the paper with his fingertips before pocketing it. “See what I mean? Now, you should grow up faster and work as my assistant,” Jongin says. “We seriously need a lot of people like you in this hospital.”

“Alright.” Jinsung gives him a small smile, just a slight curve of the lips, and Jongin’s waiting heart warms.

~O~

Jongin wakes up to the sound of rain pounding against the window. He blearily pushes himself from the table, the old, swiveling chair groaning as he does. The festivities have dulled down to a stop, and now it’s dark outside. It makes Jongin want to go back to sleep, but his spine creaks and tells him that three hours of rest is all he’s getting for today.

He checks up on his patients one by one, saving Sooyoun for last. But when he comes around the room she shares with two other patients, he finds that her bed is empty. There are fresh creases on the sheets, like ripples in a stream, and Jongin heads out and pages for Carla.

“She’s been discharged” is what Carla replies when Jongin asks her about it.

“What? Why?” Jongin says. “But I didn’t say she can. I didn’t even get to check her again if she’s fine to leave.”

“He said she can,” Carla says, pointing up, where the office of the head of OB’s department reside. “It’s that time of the year. We need the room.”

Jongin knows exactly what she’s talking about. Even if it’s happened so many times before, it still succeeds in turning him inside-out. A small part of him had actually been anticipating it, but it never really lessened the blow. Hospital policies have always been cruel, and Jongin feels so powerless against it.

He wants to shout at Carla, even if he knows she wasn’t the one calling the shots.   
“She just had a baby,” Jongin says. “You should’ve just let her stay for the meantime, even if she can’t pay for everything.”

Carla doesn’t respond, and only eyes him gently. She’s worked with him long enough, and knew all the words he wasn’t saying. 

Jongin breathes harshly through his mouth and rubs a hand to his cheek. “Tell me beforehand next time, okay?”

Carla answers with a solemn nod, and Jongin whisks himself away from the suffocating hallways. He tries not to think about Sooyoun and her son too much and resolves to help the people he can.

~O~

Another eighteen years and Jongin is here again.

“Is he still going to be there?” he questions after hearing the news that Jinsung had already passed the Gateways. “Will I still see him?” _Did he pick rebirth?_

Margaret sighs and gives him a faint nod. “Thank Marco for that one,” she says with barely hidden spite.

Marco beams. “What? All I did was make his soulmate a bit curious,” he says. “How’s another century going to hurt anyone?”

Margaret gives the man a fierce glare. “We’re breaking all the rules,” she grieves. “It’s ridiculous. No one should be an exemption to the rebirth rites.”

“I’ve taken this matter to the higher-ups, and they seem pretty interested enough. _‘Y’all do what y’all think is best for the laddy’_ , they said,” Marco say, forming circles in the air with his right hand. “We’re not breaking the rules. We’re just bending them.”

The two judges argue for a while, and Thomas takes this opportunity to study Jongin and say, “You seem troubled. Is there something you’d like to ask?”

Jongin nibbles on his upper lip. “I’m — I was wondering if this time… I was wondering if he asked for his memories,” he whispers. “Like I did.”

Thomas looks surprised. “Well, no,” he replies, and Jongin’s shoulders sag.

Margaret sniffs airily when Marco flicks his plume at her. “The memories of your past lives are a big burden to bear. And unlike the rest of you, Jongin’s soulmate actually listened to my advice,” Margaret says, and turns to face Jongin. “You knowing is already a disaster that we cannot mitigate. It’s better if he doesn’t know that you exist.”

“I understand,” Jongin lies. “As long as he’s out there.” It’ll be fine. Jongin will try again.

~O~

**S. Korea reports first MERS death in 8 days**  
\- _The Korea Herald_

South Korea on Wednesday reported its first death from Middle East Respiratory Syndrome in eight days, raising the death toll from the viral disease to 34.

The number of people diagnosed with the potentially deadly disease here remained at 186 as the country saw no additional infection cases over the past three days, according to the Ministry of Health and Welfare.

Out of the 186 diagnosed, only 33 remain hospitalized while 119 have been discharged following complete recoveries.

In addition to those diagnosed, 811 people are currently in isolation as suspected cases. The number rose from 674 on the previous day.

Since the country reported its first case on May 20, over 16,500 people have been subject to isolation for possible infection. So far, 15,761 of them have been released after they showed no symptoms of MERS for more than the known maximum period of 14 days for the disease.

MERS is a viral respiratory syndrome first reported in Saudi Arabia in 2012.

No vaccine or treatment is currently available for the disease that had carried a fatality rate of over 40 percent until the outbreak here.

In South Korea, the fatality rate of the disease is at 18.3 percent while the health ministry says about 90 percent of the deceased had existing health conditions, including diabetes and cancer, which were apparently worsened by MERS.

~O~

Jongin stares at his reflection on the mirror. His straight, dark brown hair needs a good trim, especially at the fringe, but he thinks he looks presentable enough. The collar of his dress shirt is stiff and smells like starch. He pinches it with his fingers to give it a good shape.

“You ready, honey?” Miran yells from downstairs.

Jongin gives the mirror one last look of disdain, before calling back, “Be right down in a minute!” He grabs his jacket laid out on the bed and stuffs his phone and whatever else he can ram inside his pockets. He dashes down the stairs and ties his sneakers.

Miran laughs once they’re inside the car. She slots the keys to her car and turns on the ignition. “You’ve got toothpaste at the side of your mouth,” she says.

Jongin scrambles for the rearview mirror and scowls. He wipes the offending white mixture with the back of his hand, and shuffles back to the shotgun seat. 

Miran fixes his sleeves for him. “Did you plug-off the iron?” 

Jongin nods. 

“Did you close all the doors?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Did you draw all the curtains down?”

Jongin looks at her. “Mom! Yes, I did! Can we go now?”

Miran sets the gear as she chuckles unabashedly. “If only you were this excited for school, Changhun-ah. Though I have to say, Halmeoni’s much, much happier ever since you started visiting her. She likes you.”

“That’s because I’m her friend,” Jongin says rather fiercely, hoping that would push down the blush threatening to spread all over his face. Even his own irrational excitement is apparent to him. He doesn’t need anybody else to mention that.

“I know. And you like her ― I’ve only seen you talk that much with her. Not even with the boys your age.” Miran sighs a little. “Your teachers say that you’ve been avoiding them for most of the year. That’s very rude of you, Changhun.”

Jongin tilts his head down to his shoes. “I don’t want to talk to them,” he mutters. Girls. Video games. Pranks on their teachers and classmates. Things that Jongin isn’t interested in and things that he doesn’t understand even in the slightest. Technically, Jongin’s as old as Miran’s father, but Miran wouldn’t believe him if he tells her.

A hand pats Jongin lightly on the shoulder. “Well, let’s talk about this later. I don’t want to ruin your mood. You brought her tarts, right?”

“It’s on the back seat,” Jongin says, grateful for the topic change. “I brought her the grinder and a thermos full of oatmeal too just in case her teeth aren’t up for the job.”

The hand squeezes Jongin proudly. “Good boy,” Miran says, smiling again.

~O~

When Jongin goes inside, the music is already turned up to maximum volume. Halmeoni likes music a whole lot, especially the 60’s and the 70’s. Last week was Al Green, and the week before that was Barry White. Today, _Rhythm of the Rain_ blasts against the speakers the facility has provided for her.

“I’ll meet you up front, honey,” Miran says, pecking Jongin at the cheek. Her pale blue uniform is ironed very well. “Have fun.”

Jongin nods and closes the door behind him. He tiptoes, decking behind the rocking chair, before galloping to the front. “Boo!”

Halmeoni doesn’t react at all. Her mouth is wide open, and she’s snoring quietly, the storybook Jongin has brought her last week nestled on her lap. 

Jongin doesn’t want to wake the elder woman up, but he’s already waited so long for Sunday to come around. “Halmeoni.” Jongin shakes her skirt. “Halmeoni! Come on, wake up!”

“Mhhmm.” Halmeoni’s eyes peek open kind of slowly. Jongin pokes her straight on her belly, and the woman splutters. “Oh, it’s you, Changhun. I thought it was my nurse.”

“What?” Jongin says indignantly. “But I’m a man!”

Halmeoni chuckles. “No, you’re not. You’re still a boy. Your voice hasn’t changed yet, but you just wait.” She dog-ears the page of the book, places it on the coffee table, and picks Jongin up in her arms.

Jongin’s skin tingles as Halmeoni places a warm hand on his waist to settle him. The tugging sensation in his gut reminds him of who Halmeoni is, or used to be, underneath the spotty skin and graying hair, and Jongin leans his head on Halmeoni’s chest. Her heart is beating steadily, and Jongin hopes that it would stay that way for a long time.

Halmeoni groans a little. “You’re getting heavier. What have you been eating?”

“Burgers and fries. Everything you can’t eat,” Jongin says, and Halmeoni laughs.

“I’m sorry, Changhunnie, but I’m really exhausted today.” Halmeoni’s smile is tiny. “The operation yesterday got me good.”

Jongin can’t say that he’s not disappointed, but… “Okay. Maybe we’ll play again later after you’ve gotten some sleep.” He taps his jean pockets. “I bought cards. A lot of the kids in my year play this all the time during recess.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Halmeoni says drowsily. She closes her eyes.

“‘Night,” Jongin says after a long stretch of silence, but he gets no response. Halmeoni is already asleep.

He’s been too pumped up over the visit that Jongin finds it hard to rest. His eyes stay open as he imagines swirling patterns on the ceilings, on the walls, and it takes about twenty-minutes before his eyelids droop and he succumbs to slumber as well.

Then, Jongin begins to dream. He knows he’s dreaming, because he never fails to feel like he’s running on a hamster wheel of déjà vu when he does. There are no new stories, just old ones.

Jongin’s waiting for his mother at the lounge. She’s talking to the matron in her office, trading her shift for an earlier one so Jongin would have someone with him at home during weeknights. Changhun’s father, Haewon, had died five months ago, and Miran had been working double-shifts in the nursing home. Jongin had tried to help by behaving and reading a lot, but it only made Miran worry more, and that puzzled him.

It took a while, so Jongin ventured in the first floor. There’re a lot of rooms: three nurse stations, a drug store, easily accessible bathrooms, and numerous bedrooms for the elderly. Most of the doors were slightly ajar that day, so that the nurses and doctors could get inside easily for check-up time. Jongin could get a sneak peek of everyone as he passes by the hallway.

Around the corner, right next to the stairwell, Jongin starts hearing _Angel on My Shoulder_ playing from somewhere. It’s his favorite The Cascades song. In his previous life, Jongin used to sing it in his head while he’s in front of the operating table.

It’s coming from the bedroom at the far left, and Jongin tilted the door to get a good look inside. There weren’t that much things, only a couch, chairs, a TV and stereo set, and a lumpy bed. Jongin didn’t like this room — it should be a lot more homey.

“Who are you?” a woman said. She’s sitting on the rickety chair, adjusting her round, brown glasses.

Jongin jerked his hand away from the doorframe as if he’d been burned. He took a step back, and then moved even closer. Was he seeing things?

He wasn’t. The curtains were drawn, but the windows were wide open. When Jongin opened the door wider and let himself in, the Saturday breeze entered as well, and the fabric parted just enough to let some sunlight in. It fell down just right on the side of the old woman’s face. 

“Who are you?” the woman said again, this time with more authority in her voice. Jongin stopped dead in his tracks.

“I’m Changhun. I’m eleven,” Jongin said. “My mom works here.” He gauged that it’s safe to come closer, so he did. “Who are you?”

The woman’s lower lip jutted. “I’m Eunchae, and I’m a lot older than you.” Her salt and pepper hair fell at the rims of her glasses. 

“Halmeoni,” Jongin said. That’s what he decided to call her.

“Why are you here?” Halmeoni asked. “I don’t get visitors.”

Jongin took out the chair right next to Halmeoni and sat. His mouth felt a little drier than usual. “I like your music,” Jongin said honestly. “It’s nice.”

Halmeoni stared at him for a moment. Jongin waited for recognition, or at least a flicker of it, but Halmeoni’s eyes stayed the same: taken aback, and a little confused.

“I like it a lot too,” Halmeoni said. Her throat sounded dry as well.

“Do you want to play?” Jongin said, unloading the pockets of his overalls. “I brought marbles.” He splayed them all over the floor. 

Halmeoni chuckled, her shoulders quaking. “I can’t exactly bend over like I used to, Changhunnie. I’ll just watch you play.”

“Okay.” Jongin leapt of the chair and squatted down. He scooted across the floor until he’s sure Halmeoni got a good view of his marble-playing. He’s a master with marbles, if he must say so himself. “Next time, I’ll bring something that we can play together.”

“Sure,” Halmeoni replied. She’s older, way, way older than Jongin had ever seen, but her smile hadn’t changed.

~O~

As soon as Halmeoni wakes up, Jongin helps her up to the bathroom, and they play cards for two hours until they both get bored and switch to arguing about music instead.

Although they both are avid fans of The Cascades, Jongin likes Earth, Wind & Fire, Seo Taiji and Boys, and Michael Jackson better, because the beat of their songs always get him in the mood to dance around and have fun. Halmeoni’s more into Han Daesoo, Cho Yongpil, and Gladys Knight and the Pips.

They come to a truce: Frankie Valli and the Four Season’s _Walk Like A Man_ plays in the stereo as Jongin acts as Thomas Reilly from _Heart and Souls_. After another bathroom trip, they play Go-Stop for a while. Halmeoni teases Jongin for being an “old sore loser trapped in a young body”, and Jongin pulls a five and stashes Halmeoni’s slippers under the bed until the elder woman laughingly tells him that the nurses will bring her another pair if he asks.

But then the sun sets, and it’s time.

“Go say goodbye, Changhun,” Miran says. She has Jongin’s backpack slung on her shoulder.

Jongin never liked goodbyes. “I’ll see you next week, Halmeoni!” Jongin waves, much enthused. Next Sunday will be another perfect day.

“See you, Changhunnie,” Halmeoni says and smiles. Jongin closes the door and leaves it unlocked.

~O~

Jongin waits at the lounge again for Miran to give him the go signal, his bandaged legs swinging mightily as he sits on a comfy bench. He tried out for the school’s soccer team, much to his teacher’s insistence. His kicks weren’t the cleanest out of all the hopefuls, but he scored goals the most, and he got in. He can’t wait to tell Halmeoni all about it.

“Mom.” Jongin moves to stand once he sees Miran come out from the other hallway. He then stops when he sees the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”

Miran’s eyes are red. “It’s Eunchae-ssi. It happened last night. She was cold all over, and it was all so sudden and she —” She puts a trembling hand over her lips, and then says, “Changhun-ah, she’s gone.”

“G-gone?” Jongin says. “When will she be coming back?”

Miran shakes her head helplessly. “She’s gone, Changhun-ah,” she whispers. “She won’t be coming back.”

“Oh.” Jongin’s arms fall to his sides, and he tries to regain the breath that he’s lost. “O-oh. Halmeoni…”

Jongin lets himself be swallowed in a tight hug. He stares off into space, lower jaw slacked and arms limped and Miran sniffles over his hair, stroking them gently. 

“You had been so good to her,” Miran says. “You were so good to each other.”

Jongin’s lips tremble and tremble. He raises his arms, but they go limp again.

“You’ll see her someday,” Miran mutters to his ear. “It will probably take a long time, but you’ll see each other again.”

“Okay.”

“You love her, don’t you?”

Jongin’s throat constricts. “Yes. I love Halmeoni.”

Miran pulls away and wipes away Jongin’s tear-stricken face. He has no idea when he started crying, but he is, all quiet, miserable sobs. “Then it’s only a matter of time,” Miran says, smiles, and kisses him on the forehead. “Halmeoni will be waiting for you, okay?” She kisses him again, gently. “Don’t forget that.”

~O~

“Fate does not smile upon anyone, Jongin. Fate does not even exist,” Margaret asserts. “Are you going to give up now?”

It’s a horrible lie, he agrees. If Fate really was real, he wouldn’t have to come back to Earth one more time. But Jongin steadies his stance, and his heart. “No,” he says firmly. “I won’t.”

Thomas gives him a pensive look. “This will be your last life, I’m afraid,” he says. “Make it count.”

~O~

**South Korea’s Genesis Announces 1.2 Billion ₩ Grant to Enter Artificial Intelligence in Bioprinting Space**  
\- Kim Minyoung, _The Jukebox_

Genesis, known for their successful line of interactive android models and 3D-enabled Cheorim printers released last May 2037, has forged a path to success within the space over the last couple of years, particularly in the continent of Asia, and now looks to expand to what may eventually be a multi-billion won opportunity.

The company appears to be focusing on integration of artificial intelligence for a more productive bioprinting of human skin tissues and organs, a technology which could change the way patients are treated for a variety of ailments from burns to diseases, to even cosmetic surgery.

Genesis will join a handful of companies now in the early stages of bioprinting research who have received major funding lately. It’s certainly going to be an exciting space to watch over the next 2-3 years as the technology matures.

~O~

The weather is rather cloudy for a Friday in August. At seven am, the sky is still dark, but there’s no tell-tale static in the air of an upcoming thunderstorm, so Jongin doesn’t pack his raincoat.

He zips up his jacket and puts on his helmet. He settles his foot on the shifter as he places his palm on the biopad. The motorcycle hums to life instantly, neon green light outlining the niches between the fairings, but when Jongin twists the throttle, the motorcycle makes a weird, coughing sound. 

“What…” Jongin keys in a couple of commands, and the screen announces in big, red block characters: _Engine Breakdown._

Jongin takes off his helmet, slaps both of his gloved hands to his face, and groans. The ride to work will be absolutely brutal today at this hour. He’s royally screwed.

He hops off his bike and sheds his jacket, takes the T-card he hardly ever uses idling inside the basket of plastic fruits, and runs to Hongdae station.

Seven twenty-five. The place is absolutely swarming with passengers going in and out of the train. Jongin dashes through the stairs and almost bumps into an elderly woman wearing synthetic pearls the size of oysters. Seven thirty. Jongin aggressively taps his T-card on the scanner and meanders through the crowd as soon as he’s through.

At the platform, it’s a battle against the working people, the high school and college students, and the occasional tourist. Jongin fights back the urge to push through the front and cranes his neck, waiting for the train along with the others. Seven forty-seven. The train arrives, and Jongin alights one of the buses.

He squeezes himself in between the mass of girls in matching plaid skirts and a man with a gaudy red tie. He leans his forehead on the handlebars and soaks in the coolness of the steel alloy, sweaty and exhausted.

Eight o’clock. Jongin zooms through Exit 1 of Euljiro-3-ga. Eight o’ five. He plunges to the busy streets and gets yelled at by a cab driver when he misses the street light going green. 

Eight fifteen. Jongin crawls to the lobby and slaps his palm on the biopad. _Denied_ , says the screen. He wipes his hand on his wrinkled polo and tries again. _Welcome_ , it finally says, and Jongin’s work status loads along with his time-in information. 

Eight eighteen. Jongin’s late by three minutes.

“Fridays, huh,” Lu Han, the baby-faced receptionist, says. His eyes dance with mirth at the state of Jongin’s hair and shirt. 

Jongin grimaces at him and slides his ID at the marble countertop. “Mijung betrayed me today.” He watches Lu Han swipe his ID and recode the pass encrypted on the magnetic tape. “I thought we really had something going on for a while.”

Lu Han nods sympathetically. “It’s hard to find good bikes these days,” he says. “You had her for what, two years?”

“Two years and three months,” Jongin says, and Lu Han laughs. “It’s good practice to remember dates. I don’t want to be a lousy boyfriend like you.”

“Better that than a shitty bike rider,” Lu Han counters. “Could cost you and your non-existent girlfriend your lives. You should get yours checked this weekend.” He hands Jongin back his ID, and Jongin waves goodbye and takes the tube to the seventeenth floor.

Taehyun, another intern for FAD 7, grins as soon as he sees Jongin step out of the tube. “You’re late.” 

Jongin rolls his eyes in favor of rolling Taehyun’s big head. “By three minutes,” Jongin mumbles as he goes to his work desk, hanging his blazer on his chair. “And it’s only the second time I’ve been late.”

“Well, aren’t you such a prim and proper person, Mr. Kim?” Taehyun says, pinching Jongin’s cheeks. Jongin scrambles back, surprised, and hits his head on the cubicle. Taehyun places a hand over his stomach as he laughs. “Jesus, man, you’re so easy to mess with.”

Jongin glares at Taehyun, before turning his back at him. “Don’t touch me,” he says, and proceeds to ignore Taehyun’s noise for the rest of the hour ― a hard feat, considering his and Taehyun’s cubicles are divided only by one thin laminate partition. 

Jongin surfs the internet for a good auto store during his lunch break. There’s one near Mapo Bridge, just around Exit 3 of Yeouinaru station. He saves the address to his MemoFlow and starts doodling random circles on his drawing tablet.

~O~

Jongin buys a yogurt drink from Family Mart before dragging his bike to the other side of the avenue. There are some familiar faces, like the loyal contingent of fitness junkie moms going for a jog in Yeouido Park, and a few tourists paying for the chicken delivery near a CU convenience store. He takes a look at his watch and checks the GPS whether he’s going at the right direction, and takes a sharp left at an MBC signage.

There are no stalls at the sidewalk. The government banned the people from selling mats and cheap tents around here more than a decade ago, and Jongin somewhat misses seeing the curly-haired ahjummas in their neon tracksuits, all of them urging him to buy one of their items since they’re on sale during the summer season. The streets aren’t as lively as the young Jongin remembers, but the ash trees that riddle the sidewalks are still essentially the same.

He arrives at the auto shop. The signage at the glass window says _DJH•Riders_ in plain, black letters. Jongin enters and lifts his arms sideways for a full-body scan.

There’s a girl in a red apron, black gloves, black top and jeans. Her name tag says _Cheolsa_ in roman letters. She looks young, a kid straight out of primary school kind of young. 

“Hi.” Jongin shows her his hologram card. “I have a, um, an appointment?”

Cheolsa’s eyes brighten with recognition. “Oh, yeah. Oppa’s ready to see you at the back,” she says with a reedy, soprano voice. Definitely a primary school kid. “Where’s your motorcycle, ahjussi?”

“Outside,” Jongin says, tilting his head. He looks around, and sees nothing but a bunch of bike rider posters in simple wooden frames. “Uhh, where’s ‘back’?”

“Garage. You should go ‘round,” Cheolsa instructs. She tugs Jongin by the shirt sleeve quite brazenly and leads him outside. Jongin takes the broken motorcycle with him, and follows the kid to the small alley next to the establishment. There’s a biopad and a bunch of red buttons right next to the reinforced steel door. 

Cheolsa places her palm on the biopad, and the door rolls upward, revealing a massive entryway. “Come on, ahjussi,” she says, smiling. To the mouth of the garage, she shouts, “Oppa, it’s the guy who called yesterday! He’s here!”

“Yeah?” a voice yells back, loud and echoing, and Jongin freezes at the entrance.

“Yeah! I’m bringing him in!” Cheolsa shouts again. She pokes Jongin’s waist three times. “Let’s go.”

Jongin lets out a shaky breath and goes inside. Cheolsa waves her hand, and the lights open with a honey glow. Motorcycles and vintage cars line up proudly in the room, and everything is squeaky clean save for the few smudges of motor oil on the floor. It’s a little hot inside, and Jongin sweats profusely underneath his jacket. 

A few more steps and Cheolsa takes a right. It’s another room with a much better lighting than the first. Semi-transparent plastic boxes fill the shelves in different colors, all labeled accordingly, and the huge, hand-operated vacuum pump sits next to the framed set of antique ratchets. There’s a man working under a car chassis; Jongin can only see his black jeans and sneakers.

Jongin almost jumps when Cheolsa speaks up again. “Light up the hall, oppa,” she says, managing to sound almost chiding. “It’s so creepy down here.”

The man chuckles, a deep, scratchy one, and it makes the hair on Jongin’s arms stand up. He knows this laugh. 

The man slides out from under the frame, and Jongin’s eyes widen as he stands straight like he’s been shot with electricity. 

The man’s eyes are as dark as his hair, and his lips as full and plump as Jongin remembers first seeing them. His plain black t-shirt is damp around the neckline, and he’s grinning at Cheolsa.

“I’m making up for all the hours you spend playing ViReo on your console,” the man tells her. “Shush.”

Cheolsa makes a mock grimace as she turns around to leave, and the man’s eyes slide to Jongin. His smile drops into a less personal one.

“Hi. You must be Kim Jongin-ssi,” the man says, removing his work gloves and thrusting his right arm forward as he lowers his back. “I’m Do Kyungsoo.”

_Kyungsoo_ , Jongin repeats in his head. Kyungsoo. Do Kyungsoo. 

“Hello,” Jongin says. He bows and takes Kyungsoo’s hand, and then grabs his back hastily when a sudden spark tasers the skin of his palm. His stomach squelches relentlessly, and Jongin hopes the smile he forces out isn’t as awkward as he feels.

Kyungsoo’s eyes widen and his mouth parts a little, but he then shakes his head. He averts his eyes towards the motorcycle. “What seems to be the problem?” he says.

“She’s not running.” Jongin places his hands deep inside his front pockets. “She keeps making this choking noise whenever I start her up. Sorry, I’m not good with machines or electronics.”

Kyungsoo stares at him for a while. “She?” he asks.

“Oh. I named her. It. I call it Mijung,” Jongin explains, feeling dumber by the second. He scratches his forearm absent-mindedly.

Kyungsoo quirks an eyebrow at this, but doesn’t comment. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair and inspects the bearings and suspension linkages. He pushes up the cover as Jongin hovers behind him.

Kyungsoo puts the cover back down. “Could you key-in for me?” he says.

Jongin nods. “Yeah, sure.” The motorcycle lights up when he presses his palm on the biopad, and it coughs up that strangled sound again and again until Kyungsoo tells him to turn it off.

Kyungsoo lifts the cover again where the engine and the gearbox are mounted. He props his arm on the subframe and pauses for a long time before saying, “Swing 42. I think Yamaha released this a few years ago. Since when did you have this bike?”

“Two years and three months,” Jongin says.

Kyungsoo stills again. “And you’ve never oiled her up?”

“Why would I do that?” Jongin says. “She runs on electricity.”

Kyungsoo’s lips lilt in amused disbelief. “I think Mijung-ssi’s very mad at you,” he says, shaking his head slightly.

Jongin gives him a pure look of befuddlement, and Kyungsoo points at the engine box. It looks fried. “You need to change her oil after she’s reached a certain mileage,” Kyungsoo explains. “The oil’s a lubricant. It has nothing to do with what powers the bike. If she’s not oiled properly, her engine breaks down.”

Jongin falls silent and shifts from foot to foot, feeling both sheepish and incredulous. It’s already the year 2046. He thought the crazy geniuses of this era already designed some high-tech engine thing that doesn’t require changing oils, a more than a century-old routine. Spark plugs roamed the earth not as long, but were already considered obsolete technology around twenty years ago.

Still, Jongin feels irrevocably stupid. He should’ve read the manual.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a spare engine for Mijung-ssi’s model, and hers is beyond repair,” Kyungsoo says, interrupting Jongin’s thoughts. He gazes at the white ceiling for a while, thinking. “I’ll have to order one, but it’ll take a week, and I’ll need a day to fix her.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Is that okay with you?”

Eight days. Eight days of grueling morning train rides. Jongin wails internally. 

He finds himself nodding, though. “That’ll be great,” Jongin says. “How much should I pay you?”

“Uhh, let’s see once the engine comes.” Kyungsoo wipes his dirty hands on a piece of towel he keeps in his back pocket before pushing a button on his wrist watch. A holographic screen appears. “What’s your Taggle ID?”

“I don’t know how to use Taggle,” Jongin admits. Networking platforms are especially complicated for someone whose brain is still stuck at the technology of the 2000s. “I guess I’ll e-mail you…?”

Kyungsoo’s mouth opens in what looks like an ‘ahh’, and he says, “Right, of course. You contacted first me via e-mail.”

He pushes the button again on his wrist watch, and the screen disappears. “I’ll send you one once Mijung-ssi’s ready for you to pick her up,” he says.

“Thank you,” Jongin says, smiling after. It’s easier now, easier to ignore that tiny pull in his gut when Kyungsoo doesn’t seem as affected by his presence as Jongin is. He pats the fender on the bike’s rear wheel and whispers, “I’ll be back, girl. Kyungsoo-ssi’s going to take good care of you.”

Kyungsoo walks him out of the garage. Jongin finds that Kyungsoo is as quiet as Jinsung and Halmeoni. He has this theory that souls stay roughly the same despite being reincarnated into different eras so many times, but he’s still not sure if it’s a solid one.

Kyungsoo slots his hand on the biopad, and the door rolls up again. Jongin gets blinded by the sunlight.

“See you in a week,” Jongin says. His stomach is acting up again, doing that painful, twisting thing, so he smiles as brilliantly as he can to spite it.

Kyungsoo nods in response, his mouth upturning at one corner, just a tiny bit. It’s still not a smile.

With the light streaming from this angle, Kyungsoo’s arms look firm and strong, but his cheeks are chubby, like a chipmunk’s. 

His stomach is pulling him forward again, and Jongin blurts without thinking, “How old are you?”

Kyungsoo seems taken aback at this, but before Jongin can redress his words, Kyungsoo answers with a curt, “Twenty-five.”

“Okay.” Jongin’s heart hammers in his ears. Kyungsoo’s one year older. That’s infinitely better than being sixty years older, like last time. His stomach seems to like this, too; it’s whooping in joy. “That’s great,” Jongin says.

Kyungsoo’s neck is turning slightly red, probably from the exhaustion. There’s sweat dribbling at the dip of his collarbones. “Right,” he murmurs.

Jongin takes this as his cue to leave. He steps out of the doorway, and his skin basks in a different kind of heat. It’s already noon.

He turns to give the mechanic one last look, but Kyungsoo has already started rolling down the door of the garage. Jongin only gets a glimpse of his grease-streaked sneakers before it’s steeled shut.

His body feels like it’s on the verge of overheating, so Jongin takes off his jacket and ties it around his waist. Something pokes at his gut as he takes the longest route home.

~O~

All the curtains are being washed, so the early morning rays easily rip Jongin out of his slumber. His neck is sore, his bones creak as he stretches. He slips out of bed and peers at the bathroom mirror. There’s dried drool at both ends of his mouth. Jongin wipes them off with tap water and brushes his teeth.

He’s early for work. The subway has been extra cooperative this week, and Taehyun doesn’t offer another jab about last Friday’s tardiness, seeing that the other man has been having problems waking up early as of the late. The boss also seems to like Jongin’s ideas for the toothpaste commercial better than Taehyun’s or Jonghwan’s. Overall, Jongin thinks that his internship here in Touch S is going rather smoothly than he first expected.

Jongin stays at the open grounds for lunch. Sitting on the bleachers, he looks skyward. The clouds look nice, soft and white, and the sun rays aren’t as glaring as they were a few hours ago. But it is humid, and Jongin takes off his blazer and folds it right next to him.

He hears Lu Han before he sees him. The pebbles that decorate the path makes a soft, crunching sound with every step Lu Han takes.

Jongin gets a good look of Lu Han’s gaunt face. “You look like…” he says, trailing off.

Lu Han grins down at him. “Shit, Jonginnie,” he supplies. “I look like shit.” 

Jongin frowns, but doesn’t fight him on it. “You didn’t get any sleep last night,” he says.

“Obviously,” Lu Han says. “Last night was a nightmare. I could hear my crazy neighbors throwing cheap vases at each other even when I tried upping the volume of my music player to a maximum. High-end furnishings, my ass. What a total rip-off.” 

“Go get a new lease, hyung,” Jongin says and laughs at the cranky expression Lu Han sports. “Bribe your girlfriend if you have to.”

“Yeah, that’d be easy,” Lu Han says, before pumping out his chest and putting a hand over his heart. “ _‘Oh look, honey! You can see the river from here.’_ ” He exhales, rolling his eyes. “Binna likes the places that have a clear view of the riverside. She says it makes for a good fortune or some shit. I don’t know. We don’t have that thing in China.”

Lu Han has just moved from Beijing for only a year and a half. Jongin’s Mandarin, which naturally accumulated over the years he spent on Earth, has proved to be more than helpful for the both of them. 

The younger man shrugs. “First time I’ve heard that, and I’ve lived here in Korea longer than you have.” _One hundred and eighty-four years, to be exact._ “So is dragging her to China an option? There’s a river there too, right?”

Lu Han guffaws and hands him a piece of his _samgak kimbap_. “There’s always an asshole beneath every handsome face,” the older man says without heat. “No way. I’d rather drown here in the Han River than fly back to Beijing. Hell’s brewing there.”

“Worse than dealing with the awful living arrangements here in Seoul?”

“Much, much worse.” Lu Han wrinkles his nose. “I’d be crazier than my neighbors to go back, let alone take Binna with me.”

Jongin rests the back of his head on the bench. If it’s as bad as Lu Han and the news say, then it looks like he has another bloody war to look forward to. It never gets easier, watching and hearing and reading about people killing each other, and Jongin never fails to feel rather horrified remembering that he had been a part of it once.

“You love Binna more than sleep,” Jongin says after a while, the birds fluttering by as he speaks. He tries to imagine Binna and her eye-catching auburn-dyed hair, wading through Lu Han’s butchered Korean. “I’m jealous,” he adds.

Lu Han chuckles, delighted. “That’s true, but I have to admit that my love gets tested sometimes.” He sighs, but it doesn’t sound weary. “And I’ll test it out tonight again, I guess.”

“Go get it, hyung,” Jongin cheers, whirling the end of his tie like a lasso. “If you suddenly need a place to crash, you know who to call.”

Lu Han laughs. “You suck. Still don’t have a significant other to fill in that empty space in your bed?”

Jongin slugs him easy, since he’s slightly taller than Lu Han. “Not interested,” he says. “Looking at you and Binna and the rest of the couples in the world, I really don’t see the draw.”

“I honestly think you’re just not into putting in effort. There’s no such thing as destiny, you lazy schmuck,” Lu Han says. Jongin scowls at him, and the elder laughs again. “Clock’s tick-tick-ticking, Jongin. You’re not getting any younger.”

“Like I said, I’m not exactly interested,” Jongin says. He licks his chapped lips and continues, “If there’s someone, you’d be the first one to know.”

“Wow. I’m extremely flattered,” Lu Han says. “Though I bet you’d have to tie her up so that she won’t run away.” 

Jongin checks him with a bump on the shoulder. Lu Han bumps him back just as hard, and they both laugh loudly after. It’s always easy, talking with Lu Han, that Jongin can honestly say that the twenty-nine-year-old is his best (and only) friend in this era. The universe paired them up, for obvious reasons.

Jongin’s watch beeps, and he groans.

Lu Han pats him on the back, grinning wickedly. “Time to test your patience, kiddo,” he says. “Oh, how can one _stand_ Kim Taehyun and his incessant babbling? The horror.”

“Shut up,” Jongin says sullenly, picking up his blazer and slipping his arms through the sleeves. “I don’t talk like that.”

“Your Mandarin is fucking out-dated sometimes. I’ll buy you a dictionary if I’m feeling charitable. Latest edition, with illustrations, the whole nine yards,” Lu Han says, taking all the wrappers, and prods Jongin with his foot. “I’ll clean up the mess. Now go and be the most awesome intern FAD 7 has ever seen!”

Jongin rolls his eyes emphatically, and Lu Han makes a lewd gesture in retaliation. Once he’s inside the tube, Jongin pushes the number 17 on the dashboard, and breaks into tiny, smothered laughs afterwards.

~O~

It would be a complete lie if Jongin said he never thought about Kyungsoo ever since they met again. He tries his best not to dwell on it, but his mind keeps on casually drifting back to that day he came to the auto shop, like it’s only natural. Maybe it is. They’re soulmates, after all.

The thing is, Jongin doesn’t want to hope. He hopes against all hopes that he wouldn’t hope. He has finally found Kyungsoo again, but perhaps they will never really get to soulbind, no matter how many lifetimes Jongin takes. And he doesn’t have another lifetime to try. This fifth will be his last and final one.

Jongin combs his hair with his fingers repeatedly, until it softens, and his fringe lands quite pleasingly against his forehead. He makes sure his dress shirt is buttoned up nicely, and tucks it in his jeans.

_What’s so great about soulbinding anyway?_ Jongin thinks. Sure, Marco almost never shuts up about how magical it is every time they stroll down to The Dock, but really, how much does another soul make a difference? Marco’s probably just exaggerating. He’s Italian.

Jongin tries on a bunch of different smiles in front of the mirror, and practices what he thinks is the most charming one he has a few more times before dashing out of his house.

The trip to _DJH•Riders_ is too quick. Jongin suddenly finds himself in front of Cheolsa’s knowing gaze.

“You look nice, ahjussi,” Cheolsa says. She’s smirking. Jongin needs a diversion.

“You look very pretty as well,” he says. There’s a ViReo character hanging on the silver chain around her neck, and Jongin grins. “Cool necklace. Is that Dew, the most powerful sorceress in Orendale?”

Cheolsa gapes at him. She looks a lot like Kyungsoo, with her raven hair and bug-eyed expression. “Oh my god, do you play?” she says excitedly. “Who’s your favorite avatar?”

Jongin shakes his head. “I don’t actually play. The company where I intern in works for ViReo’s company. We do advertising and stuff, so I know a bit about the game.”

“Awesome,” Cheolsa says, eyes crinkling. “You’re awesome, ahjussi.”

Jongin chuckles. “Call me Jongin. You’re making me feel really old,” he says. “Where’s your brother?”

Cheolsa makes a face that only ten-year-olds are capable of making. “He’s in the garage. He never leaves unless he’s hungry or if he needs to do the groceries or if it’s Saturday night.”

Jongin wonders what happens every Saturday night, but decides that it might be too imposing to ask. He says instead, “I’m here to pick up my bike. Kyungsoo-ssi says I could get her today. Would you take me to him?”

“Of course!” Cheolsa jumps down from her high stool and lead Jongin outside by the sleeve again. She keys in, and the screen brightens as the garage door rolls up. “Kyungsoo oppa! Jongin oppa’s here!”

The lights flicker on, and Kyungsoo steps out of the room, eyes blinking. He’s wearing the same clothes Jongin has seen him in last week, or maybe Kyungsoo has a lot of plain black shirts lying around in the garage. He’s got a wrench in one hand, and he’s walking barefoot. 

“Oh. Hi,” Kyungsoo says, a little short on breath. He sticks out his thumb. “Mijung’s at the back. I’ll go get her.”

Cheolsa looks at her brother, then at Jongin. “Mijung?” she questions.

“That’s my motorcycle’s name,” Jongin says.

“You named your motorcycle?” Cheolsa looks at him in awe. “Cool!”

Kyungsoo throws her a pointed look, and Cheolsa smiles at him sheepishly. “I’ll bring back some tea,” she says, and flashes Jongin a bright smile before scrambling to the exit.

Jongin stares at Cheolsa’s retreating back, before turning to face Kyungsoo. The expression on Kyungsoo’s face is unreadable.

“She seems pretty taken with you,” Kyungsoo says slowly. He’s eyeing Jongin a bit warily.

Jongin fumbles for words. “She’s a great kid,” is all he manages to say.

Kyungsoo nods stiffly. He heads to the deeper part of the garage, gesturing for Jongin to follow. Jongin files behind him without another word.

On top of a steel platform, Mijung awaits, extra polished, and honestly looking even better than when Jongin first bought her. The handlebars are different; it’s shorter but more sophisticated looking. The throttle grip has been replaced with stronger rubber, and the fairing is noticeably more streamlined. 

Jongin’s jaw drops. “Wow,” he says.

“I tinkered with the saddle too, if that’s okay. You have a long torso, so,” Kyungsoo says. He scratches his neck with his thumb. “If you want to change it back, I can ―”

“No, it’s great!” Jongin exclaims. Now that Kyungsoo’s mentioned it, Jongin always had to hunch whenever he rides his bike. He finally gets why that Yamaha salesman offered to have it custom-designed for an additional fee. “This is perfect. Seriously, thank you.”

Kyungsoo’s face visibly relaxes. “No problem.” 

“How much for the engine? And uhh, everything else?” Jongin says. The whole thing is probably going to take out a huge chunk out of his savings, but he really can’t bring himself to care. His gut is infested with bees again, only it doesn’t exactly qualify as an unpleasant feeling as of the moment. 

Kyungsoo presses his watch and types a couple of numbers. The receipt of the motor company appears on the hologram screen.

“Three million, four hundred twenty thousand won?” Jongin says incredulously.

“Yeah.”

Jongin’s never been great at math, but something definitely doesn’t add up. “Wait, you’re only going to charge me for the engine?”

Kyungsoo frowns. “There’s also a service fee,” he says.

Jongin gapes at him. “But, Kyungsoo-ssi, the handlebars and the saddle and ―”

“Are just spare parts,” Kyungsoo cuts in. He looks tired, or irritated ― Jongin’s not sure.

“You practically rebuilt the whole thing,” Jongin says. “Shouldn’t you be asking me for more?” 

“It’s fine,” Kyungsoo says shortly. He then sighs, like he doesn’t know what to say anymore, and stares at Jongin instead and arches his right eyebrow.

Jongin’s watch beeps, signaling a new e-mail. Kyungsoo’s ID glares at him, and Jongin hesitates for a while before typing the amount. He presses send, and this time, it’s Kyungsoo’s watch that beeps.

“Thank you,” Jongin says again, hoping he succeeds in sounding really earnest.

Kyungsoo blinks and shrugs, before walking past him.

Jongin has no idea what to do next but watch the muscles of Kyungsoo’s back arch as the older man crouches in front of a tool box. Even without his stomach revolting against him, Jongin can tell that Kyungsoo’s having an off day. He doesn’t look nearly as… accommodating as he was last week.

Luckily, Cheolsa swoops in for the rescue, a tea set over a silver tray in hand. “I hope Jongin oppa likes jasmine tea,” she says. She stops, looking back and forth at Jongin and Kyungsoo, and frowns.

“Sorry, Cheolsa, but I really have to go.” Jongin needs to get away from Kyungsoo’s oppressive mood, specifically. He feels a little sick. “Thanks for the tea.”

Cheolsa looks hurt, and Jongin feels like a total asshole Lu Han always describes him as. He puts on that smile he’s painstakingly practiced hours before coming here. “Let’s have that again when I come back, okay?” he says.

“You will?” Cheolsa doesn’t look like she believes him, so Jongin smiles even wider and crouches to her height.

He lightly squeezes her shoulder. “Of course,” he promises. “I love jasmine tea.”

Cheolsa slowly grins, and Jongin lifts his pinkie finger and wraps it against hers. “You should come by to my place, too,” Jongin tells her. “My kids would love you.”

“Really?

Jongin chuckles. “We’ll play together. Let’s get you away from that ViReo game and have some _real_ fun.”

Cheolsa’s expression suddenly turns hilariously determined. “I’ll hold you to your promise, oppa,” she declares, and Jongin laughs once more.

There are tiny sparks going off in Jongin’s stomach. Jongin looks up, and Kyungsoo’s staring at him again with no expression whatsoever on his face.

Jongin realizes that he really, really needs to go. He rips his gaze away from Kyungsoo’s eyes and takes his Mijung off the stand, hauling the both of them out. Cheolsa sets the tray on a work table and follows him out.

“Did oppa say something to you?” Cheolsa demands. “I’m sorry. He can get a bit harsh sometimes.”

Jongin mounts his bike. He forgot to bring his helmet. He’s going to have to take another route where there are no officers standing by the roads. “He didn’t say anything,” Jongin assures her. “Your brother seems like a great guy.” Just a bit pricklier than Jongin remembers him being.

Cheolsa pouts at him. “Bring me a Dew figurine if you’re really sorry. That’s the only way I can forgive you.”

Jongin smiles winningly. “Sure thing, buddy.” He leans in and ruffles Cheolsa’s hair, before turning on the ignition. Kyungsoo’s right; with the saddle perched a bit further, Jongin’s a lot more comfortable pushing forward this way. 

Jongin frowns to himself. He presses the throttle and speeds away.

~O~

Yawning, Jongin curls his fingers over his bed comforter. He opens his tablet nestling on the nightstand, and it tells him that it’s already Sunday. He spent the half of yesterday sleeping; his eyes ache as he tries to keep it open.

Curious, Jongin types _Do Kyungsoo_ on the browser. He gets redirected to an almost empty Taggle page. No pictures, no status updates. Only his basic information is available on the purple panel: his date of birth (January 12, 2018), his job (works at _DJH•Riders_ ), and his relationship status (Single).

Maybe his theory has been wrong all along, Jongin muses as he closes all the tabs in one swipe of a finger. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting for this lifetime, Jongin figured that Kyungsoo would be a lot like Halmeoni, who seemed to like adventures and loved hiking to all sorts of places when she was young. Jongin really liked Halmeoni. He liked Jinsung too, but Do Kyungsoo seems like a more blown out version of the kid with his extra priggish eyebrows and color-coordinated toolbox. Maybe he’s wrong, and that the essence of a person’s soul doesn’t stay the same all throughout the reincarnation process. But somehow, Jongin doesn’t exactly feel any different. Perhaps the memories do make a huge difference.

He recalls Kyungsoo’s blank face staring at him, and Jongin has no clue how to handle this version of his soulmate. In his previous lives, Kyungsoo has always smiled at him.

Jongin cowers back under his duvet, and imagines the many ways he can screw this up.

~O~

Jongin doesn’t want to bother dressing up again the next Tuesday, but he ends up grabbing the nicest pair of jeans he sees in his closet and puts on a vintage video game shirt before storming off his apartment.

He parks at the alley next to the shop. When he goes up front, he laughs. Cheolsa’s grinning face is plastered against the window. 

“Hey there,” Jongin says and taps the glass. Cheolsa giggles and waves.

As soon as the scanners let Jongin enter, Cheolsa claps her hands. “I knew you’d come!” She beams, and then squeals at the corridor, “See, oppa? I told you Jongin would come!”

“You’ve said that five times already. Give me a break,” a voice says, and in a few seconds, Kyungsoo comes into full view. He’s drying his hair with a towel, and his shirt clings to his chest and arms, still slightly wet from the shower.

“She really likes having tea,” Kyungsoo says to him, sounding very apologetic. “Sorry for having her drag you into this.”

Cheolsa huffs indignantly. She pumps her tiny fists. “I’m right here, you know!” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jongin says. “Let’s have that some of that special jasmine tea, shall we?”

Cheolsa skips merrily off the counter and skitters to the kitchen.

Kyungsoo gives his hair a few final pats before hanging his towel on a nearby peg. His eyes skid to the floor, before flying up to meet Jongin’s gaze. He looks so wary again. Jongin’s stomach twists uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo finally says after a long silence, bowing. “I wasn’t exactly on my best behavior last week. You’re a valued customer, and I was terribly rude to you. I’m very sorry.”

“It’s nothing.” Jongin’s lips set into a thin line. “I guess Cheolsa scolded you when I left, hadn’t she?”

A soft laugh, and then, all of Jongin’s initial nervousness melts, when Kyungsoo gives him a small, timid smile.

“Gave me an earful,” Kyungsoo says. He’s still smiling. “Four feet eleven and she completely towers over me sometimes.”

Jongin grins as wide as he can. “Sounds like she truly runs the place.”

Kyungsoo nods in full agreement, and then, in a blink of an eye, his expression retracts, and he puts on a perfectly straight face again. Jongin has no idea how he does that. “Anyway, I’m really sorry,” he says.

“I really didn’t mind, Kyungsoo-ssi,” Jongin says softly. “Everybody has bad days.”

Kyungsoo averts his gaze towards a poster on the wall, an American biker riding a Harley-Davidson Softail with a caption that says _We Want You!_

“Bad days, huh,” Kyungsoo mumbles, more to himself.

Jongin gulps, his heart pounding. He’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do at this point, but he’s willing to try anything. “Hey,” he blurts. “Do you ― do you like coffee?” 

Kyungsoo turns to him and blinks. “What?” He blinks again. 

Watching a plethora of romcoms for fifty years on television hasn’t gotten Jongin any smoother over the years. He doesn’t really want to say it again. “Do you like coffee?”

Kyungsoo’s lips part, and the silence is maddening. He answers after half a minute, his voice so low and quiet that Jongin strains himself in order to hear him, “I don’t.”

Jongin’s shoulders sag in relief. “Oh. That’s great,” he says. “I don’t like coffee either.”

“Umm.” Kyungsoo blinks a few times. “Is there ―”

“Do you want to go out sometime?” Jongin asks. He dumps his sweaty palms in his back pockets. “You pick. Wherever you want to go.” 

It takes another half-minute for Kyungsoo to answer that Jongin almost wishes he hadn’t said anything. Kyungsoo purses his lips, and then says, “I only go out during Saturday nights, and it’s for... something.” He checks the corridor, before turning back to Jongin. “I don’t think I’ll be free anytime soon,” he adds, whispering again.

Jongin has this feeling he hasn’t been rejected outright, and says, “What you do on Saturdays — it’s not illegal, is it?”

That seems to make Kyungsoo’s tense shoulders relax a bit. He cracks a wry smile. “Not really,” he says.

Jongin inhales and tries one more time, “So are you booked after? I’m okay even if it lasts until morning.” He shrugs. “I can wait.”

“No. What? I mean, yeah. Yeah,” Kyungsoo says. He looks dazed. “I ― alright.” His eyes widen a bit more. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Jongin double-checks. “Does that mean we’re good?”

Kyungsoo bobs his head. Some of the water droplets spread all over the countertop. “I guess I’ll e-mail you.”

“Cool.” Jongin can feel the smile stretching on his face, victorious. That tugging sensation is back in full force. “Thanks.”

Kyungsoo’s entire expression grows confused. His jaw falls open again as his eyes dart everywhere, the way Jongin instinctively knows that he’s thinking really, really hard. He then looks back at Jongin and says, “Why are you asking me to ―”

“Tea’s ready!” Cheolsa calls from the inside, the voice loud enough to make Jongin jump. “Kyungsoo oppa, bring a chair from the register with you!”

“I’m going outside!” Kyungsoo shouts back, and moves to take the wet towel with him. He slides it around his neck, his eyes shifting from Jongin’s face to the walls, like they can’t decide whether it’s okay to look at Jongin or not.

Jongin almost wraps his hand around Kyungsoo’s forearm, and stops just in time. “You’re not joining us?” he says.

“I have to tinker some stuff. I need to catch up on a deadline.” Kyungsoo turns his back away. “Take care of Cheolsa for me.”

“Sure,” Jongin mutters, the uneasiness creeping back again. “Of course.”

Kyungsoo puts on his slippers and bows out of the register. The scanner senses him immediately and lets him through. The bells on the door chime.

As Jongin passes through the narrow corridor, he notices three wooden doors. The cream one is Kyungsoo’s room, and the lilac one must be Cheolsa’s. The mahogany one might be their parent’s, or the door to the bathroom.

The kitchen is small and neat, with a foldable table gracing the center. There’s a steaming pot of tea and patterned china on top of the pale green table mat.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Cheolsa says, reading the question on Jongin’s face. “He doesn’t hate anyone. He’s just like that, sometimes.”

“Neato,” Jongin says dejectedly, and Cheolsa laughs.

“Now, where’s my present, oppa?” Cheolsa demands, pointing at the paper bag in Jongin’s hand. It’s Jongin’s turn to laugh, handing over the ViReo figurine, and Cheolsa pours him tea.

~O~

It takes a long time for the sun to set, but as soon as it does, sedans and SUVs are already clogging the main alley to Wausan-ro-11-gil. Jongin keeps his eyes glued to the hologram screen as he takes numbered steps towards an outfitter store. He doubles back, takes a left after spotting a 7-Eleven by the corner, and walks straight until he arrives to a low-rise building next to an Italian Gelato store.

Jongin glances down at Kyungsoo’s e-mail before looking back at the small, rusting billboard. He followed the directions perfectly, so this must be the place. Jongin stares dubiously at the rickety gate and the rundown fire exit, and wonders if Kyungsoo wanted them to meet at the quaint noodle house across the street and this is all an honest mistake. He definitely wasn’t expecting Kyungsoo to ask him to meet in a club, of all places.

A burly bouncer glances at Jongin’s key-in and lets him through. The entire place is a bit dingy and smells like week-old kebabs, and it’s probably why they only charged him eleven thousand won for the night in. A rockabilly band plays at front, the speakers crackling along with the sound of the electric guitar and the wailing of the lead vocalist. Kyungsoo told him to meet up at nine o’ clock, but Jongin’s about a quarter and a half an hour early, so he searches for a good place to hang for a while.

The bartender grins at Jongin’s button down as he takes a stool. “Let me guess. Blind date didn’t go so well?”

Jongin reddens and wipes the sweat off his brow. “Date hasn’t even started yet,” he replies.

The bartender chuckles. He’s tall, with thin lips and hair that looks like it had been recently attacked by a raccoon. “I’m afraid you’re a little overdressed for the place, mister.” He slides Jongin a glass. “Anything for your poor, skittish heart?”

“What do you have?”

“The best.” He laughs again when Jongin fails from holding back a snort. “I hope you like cheap bourbon on the rocks.”

The guy is pretty chatty. Jongin easily learns that he’s older by two years, and that he’s into dogs and cats but is allergic to own one, and that he almost drove his parents’ car off a cliff on a road trip back in Busan. Strangely, Jongin only finds out his name when someone knocks on the counter a few times.

“Ditch the station, Chanyeol,” the man says. “You’re up next.” He leaves as fast as he came. 

The guy, Chanyeol, proceeds to wink at Jongin as he unties the knot of his apron. “You’re in for some mind-blowing music,” he chirps.

With the small dose of alcohol, Jongin feels loose enough to smile back. “Let’s see if you’re good.”

Chanyeol elbows him and beams, extremely pleased with the light teasing. He then exits, and Jongin is left alone at the bar with a moping kid about four stools away. He sips the last of his drink and files the glass away to the side.

The sound of the mic rattling against the stand reverberates from the speakers, and Jongin looks up. Chanyeol is setting up his drums next to two guys who are significantly shorter than him. The slightly taller one stays in front of a complicated-looking keyboard, his skin shockingly pale underneath the buttery stage lights. The other one has his back turned, crouching at the mess of multi-colored cables.

Chanyeol lowers the mic next to the drum set. "You know who we are," he says as introduction, and is rewarded by enthusiastic squeals and hollers. Jongin is amazed to find a mass of girls with hearts in their eyes who look way too young to be in a club at the foot of the stage. Chanyeol and his band seems to have a considerably large fan following.

"I see a lot of familiar faces and a couple of new ones. Thank you all for coming," the other man says. "I'm Junmyeon, and this is Chanyeol and Kyungsoo. For tonight, here's our own rendition of 'Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft'. Hope you guys like it."

_Kyungsoo?_ Jongin immediately straightens and stares after the man whose back is still turned. Kyungsoo?

The man kicks some of the cords away, stands up, and faces the audience. 

Kyungsoo scrunches up his face momentarily at the light striking his face. He licks his lips, and gives Junmyeon and Chanyeol a signal.

Chanyeol starts the song, or, more accurately, rattles off radio DJ gibberish while Kyungsoo makes weird, croaking noises. They continue the exchange for the first twenty seconds, until Junmyeon plays and hums a melody.

Kyungsoo begins singing, _really_ singing, closing his eyes while one hand grasps on the mic and the other presses flat on his navel. Jongin gets off his stool and marches closer to the stage, stunned. Kyungsoo's got a _great_ voice.

Junmyeon joins Kyungsoo around the second verse, and Junmyeon's got an awesome voice as well. His singing is softer than Kyungsoo's, a bit hesitant, whereas Kyungsoo's seems more daring but calm at the same time. The English words roll off smoothly from Kyungsoo’s tongue, smoother than the way the bourbon slid down Jongin's throat.

The song lasts several minutes longer than the regular song, but the small gathering around the stage seems to be sold on it. They hoot and clap when it ends, and Kyungsoo looks wonderfully overjoyed. He's sporting the biggest smile Jongin's ever seen him have.

All three of them send their genuine thanks to the audience and leap off the stage. Jongin waits for a while behind a guy in neo-punk clothing, and pounces at Kyungsoo when he sees the older man sitting in one of the stools at the bar.

"I genuinely thought you were giving birth at the first part," Jongin says, and Kyungsoo staggers from his seat. He snickers. "I was ready to give EMT a ring."

"What in the —" Kyungsoo says, and then turns to glare at him. "God, don't ever creep up on me again." He flinches, his face turning into a delightful shade of red. "You're a bit early, Jongin-ssi," he says.

"The place is remote, so I got a bit curious," Jongin says, taking a seat next to him. "I'm glad I came early. You sing really well."

"Uhh, thanks," Kyungsoo mumbles.

Jongin orders bourbon again from another bartender. Chanyeol's still surrounded by his giggling fangirls. "Do you want something, Kyungsoo-ssi?"

Kyungsoo's boring holes on the bartender's pants. "No. I can't really drink tonight," he answers.

Jongin wonders if they're going to be like this for the rest of the night, Kyungsoo staying terse to Jongin's sad attempts to stir a conversation.

"Oh," a voice says from behind them. It's Junmyeon. He's eyeing them rather curiously, taking in Kyungsoo's stiff shoulders and Jongin's disgruntled expression. He then turns to Kyungsoo and says, "Hey, uhh. I already talked to hyung-nim. He says it's okay."

"Thanks, hyung." Kyungsoo claps the back of Junmyeon's hand. He nibbles on his lower lip. "Hyung, this is Kim Jongin. Jongin-ssi, this is Kim Junmyeon. He's the genius who started it all."

Junmyeon chuckles and jabs his thumb to the stage. "Oh, I think the real genius is still drowning in the autographs he has to sign." He sticks out his hand. "Pleasure, Kim Jongin-ssi."

Jongin takes it. "Likewise." Junmyeon's handshake is firm and warm like his smile.

"This is the first time Kyungsoo's brought a friend here," Junmyeon says. "He likes keeping the whole thing hush-hush, if it means he doesn't get hounded by a hungry mob of talent scouts."

Kyungsoo lets out a small hiss, and Junmyeon holds up his hands, the skin around his eyes crinkling into tiny folds.

"Do you perform here often?" Jongin says.

"Not really. I teach Sociology at Hongdae and have seminars on Sundays, and Kyungsoo and Chanyeol have their own jobs, so. Just whenever our free time coincides, which usually falls on Saturdays," Junmyeon says. Jongin can already tell that Junmyeon's light-years ahead of him and Kyungsoo in being a strong conversationalist. "Performing for the people 'round here is great, still. This guy here says he's just in it for the extra cash, but don't ever believe a single word he says." He grins at Kyungsoo, and the latter rolls his eyes at him.

Kyungsoo tugs on Jongin's sleeve twice, and a spark of something shoots straight to Jongin's abdomen. "Hey. We have to go, hyung. Sorry if we had to cut the performance short."

"Can't you tell I already want you two to get the hell out of here?" Junmyeon laughs, and waves them away. "I'm going to save Chanyeol from the wolves. Have an awesome night out!"

Kyungsoo snorts delicately. "He doesn’t exactly want to be saved, does he?” he remarks. "Night, hyung."

"Tell your sister I said hi!" Junmyeon calls before Kyungsoo and Jongin exit the club. 

It's colder out. Jongin rolls his sleeves down until it covers his forearm. A blue car honks at them while it heads to the only parking space available next to the empty crates of beer. 

Kyungsoo first stares at the gelato store before turning to face Jongin. “You still haven’t told me why you wanted to see me tonight,” he says.

Jongin honestly doesn’t know, and he tells Kyungsoo this. He swallows. “I just wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just thought we should hang out or something.”

Kyungsoo stares. “Is this about the bike?” he questions. “I never asked for extra payment.”

“No. I just thought that we could be —” Jongin stops, his hackles rising up without meaning to, and his eyes fall to the ground. He kicks a pebble off the pavement and frowns. “Does everything need to have a reason?” he mumbles.

Kyungsoo falls silent. When Jongin looks up, he’s staring at Jongin’s feet with unnatural intensity, his expression a funny cross between frustrated and weirded out. His pale hand fists over his abdomen.

“My sister likes you,” Kyungsoo mutters, finally. He peeks at Jongin through his fringe. “She says that you’re a great tea party companion or something. She… she wants you to visit sometime, if you’re free.”

“Tell her she’s a pretty awesome hostess,” Jongin says. “I’ll come. If you want me to.”

Kyungsoo blanches. “Why are you asking me?” he says quite defensively. “I’m not the one who’s going to make you sit for hours and force you to listen to me whine about how uncool my brother is.”

Jongin gathers his nerves. “You don’t seem to like having me around,” he mumbles.

Kyungsoo’s hand limps to his side. “It’s not that,” he says fiercely, the tips of his ears and nose pink. His expression twists again.

Jongin’s stomach starts acting up, and he tries to rein it down. He can tell that Kyungsoo feels upset about something.

“Do you want to grab a bite?” Jongin says.

Kyungsoo shakes his head vigorously. “I don’t think I can handle eating anything right now,” he says, hand over his navel again. “Are you hungry?”

“Uhhh, not really.” 

“You okay with walking around for a while?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Jongin mumbles. He stands next to Kyungsoo, and wills himself to act natural and ignore the way his stomach bubbles in anticipation.

They stroll past the noodle house and walk a few meters away from the alley. Most of the by-standers completely ignore them, puffing out huge, pillows of smokes from their cigarettes, while a few stare at them as they pass. Usually at this hour, Jongin is back at home, finishing work projects or sleeping until Sunday noon comes. He’s not entirely fond of the idea of going out for a drink when he can do it in the living room with his poodles keeping him company. 

“How old are you?” Kyungsoo says suddenly, looking at Jongin by the corner of his eye.

Jongin peers at him. “Twenty-four.”

“What?” Both of Kyungsoo’s eyebrows rise. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Jongin says, confused. “I was born in 2019. Why?”

Kyungsoo shrugs. “I could’ve sworn you were older.” He then tilts his chin to Jongin’s button down. “Nobody tucks their shirt in like that anymore.” 

Jongin tugs his dress shirt down, and Kyungsoo’s lips quirk up a little. “Sorry. I wasn’t instigating anything,” Kyungsoo says. “You just don’t seem like you’re younger than me. You don’t act that way, either.”

“Has anybody ever told you that you look like you’re only fifteen, Kyungsoo-ssi?” Jongin says, and Kyungsoo throws him an unimpressed look. Jongin grins at him loftily in response.

They walk past Sangsu station, and Kyungsoo stops at a CU and buys them a bottle of water. They lean on the railings as they watch the cars pass through Wausan-ro.

“Cheolsa doesn’t know about this?”

Kyungsoo scrunches his nose. “I’m not entirely sure she can keep this thing from Mom and Dad. Her mouth runs ahead of her when she gets excited most of the time.”

Excited? “Your parents aren’t with you?” Jongin says.

“Abroad. They call once a week,” Kyungsoo says, twirling the cap of his now empty bottle. He grimaces. “They haven’t been home for a long time. I’ve been running the shop myself since high school. I think Cheolsa’s already forgotten how it feels to be under the same roof with them.”

Jongin gives Kyungsoo a sideward glance. The elder man is looking ahead, studying the small palm trees at the other side. They’ve been walking for more than an hour, but Kyungsoo doesn’t seem like he’s tired.

He rests his arms on the railings. Jongin had been lucky four times, but he hasn’t been quite fortunate this time around. Lee Yoonjae had been left in an orphanage as soon as he was old enough to drink baby formula, the nasty stuff. With the memories of his past lives, it had been all too easy for Yoonjae to run away at age fifteen, change his name to Kim Jongin, and survive in the city on his own. 

Though some of those memories don’t come back. Jongin’s brain can only hold as much, with the almost two hundred years he spent living and dying. He has no idea how his first parents looked like. Gayoung and Daewon, too. Miran’s getting a bit blurry, if Jongin closes his eyes and tries to picture her in his mind. It’s not exactly a big surprise, but it still succeeds in making Jongin feel terrible whenever he thinks about it.

“When did they say they will come back?” Jongin says.

“They were supposed fly to Incheon this Christmas, but they called two weeks ago, around Tuesday. Dad said they were in a… tight spot.” Kyungsoo sighs. “I have absolutely no clue how to tell Cheolsa that they won’t be here again this year.”

“Oh,” Jongin says, recalling. Tuesday was the day Jongin came to pick up his bike. “Umm, maybe you could break it to her while you’re having tea?”

Kyungsoo snorts loudly. “She’s ten years old, but she’s not dumb,” he says. His eyes dim. “I can’t keep her from waiting, though. That’s what I’m more worried about.”

Jongin glances at Kyungsoo again. His face is flushed, but he seems more comfortable now than he ever was with Jongin inside the garage or the bar. Maybe the open space helps.

“I think I know what you’re trying to tell me, Kyungsoo-ssi,” Jongin says. “I really like Cheolsa. She’s a sweet kid. I’m not going to… you know.” He smiles, though it probably comes out all awkward-looking. “I never back out on my promises.”

Kyungsoo flushes even more. “I was kinda hoping you’re going to be some sort of distraction,” he confesses. “She’s pouring all her attention to that stupid ViReo game instead of studying, and she keeps on buying these ugly dolls and plushies and places them all over the house. It’s driving me nuts.”

Jongin laughs. “Kids are actually pretty easy to be around. Better than adults.” He turns quiet for a while, thinking. “I’m an intern with crazy hours. I don’t think I can afford to become a babysitter.”

Kyungsoo looks at him, alarmed. “I won’t ever ask you of that,” he says. “Just drop by, if convenient. I told you before. Cheolsa likes you, and she says you pay attention to her.” Even with this shade of darkness, Jongin can see that Kyungsoo’s cheeks are getting redder and redder as he talks. “I’m not entirely sure if I’m good with kids,” he says.

Jongin jostles Kyungsoo’s shoulder gently, and he feels this weird rush course through him, blood surging to the ends of his fingers, making them throb and tremble. It’s not a bad thing, though. It actually feels really good.

“For the record, your sister never mentioned or whined about how uncool you are,” Jongin says. He nudges Kyungsoo once more, skin to skin this time, and the rush in his stomach explodes into a flood. “Though, yeah. I could get used to having English Style tea parties every week. Sounds like a solid plan to me.”

Kyungsoo smiles softly, and Jongin’s heart sings. “Thank you,” the older man says. 

Jongin grins back at him. “I could get used to this, too,” he prompts. Kyungsoo flashes him a quizzical look, and Jongin says, “I’ve never actually been to a live performance before.”

“Never?” Kyungsoo swivels his torso and turns to stare at the pedestrians.

“I don’t go out much, and it’s not like I have someone to go with. As you can see, I’m not the most suave person around.”

Kyungsoo purses his lips to keep himself from laughing. “My sister has horrible taste in men,” he says. “What would you be getting out of this, though?”

“The pleasure of your company,” Jongin quips, and Kyungsoo throws him an unamused look. “No, seriously. I really liked what you did back there. Were you some kind of pregnant rhino at the first part?”

“An alien,” Kyungsoo corrects. “It’s an old ‘The Carpenters’ song.” He frowns at Jongin. “You don’t have to come and listen to us every Saturday. It’s not a serious thing.”

Jongin doubts that. Kyungsoo’s grin at the end of their number had lit up the whole room. “Trust me. Chanyeol-ssi wasn’t the main event a few hours ago. Or at least to me.” He leans sideward. “You have a really amazing voice, Kyungsoo-ssi.”

Kyungsoo’s pupils look all blown up from this angle as Jongin stares at them. “You’re so…” He doesn’t continue that thought.

Jongin doesn’t know what to make out of that, so he shrugs. “Let’s meet up again, yeah? Just give me a heads up, next time.” He looks down on his clothes. “I wasn’t aware there was a dress code I wasn’t following.”

Kyungsoo laughs freely this time. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll keep you posted.”

Jongin’s Saturday nights will never be the same again. “Shake on it,” he says, and Kyungsoo laughs again and throws his palm open. 

Jongin takes it, and is rewarded by this blaze in his chest and a gazillion fluttering fireflies in his stomach.

~O~

The days speed by. The whole city still looks half-asleep when Jongin leaves for work on Thursday, or maybe it’s just him projecting his own grogginess. He cleans the fiber glass of his helmet and takes off.

Lu Han’s not manning the desk today. Someone with a disgruntling poker face and a dry, “ID, sir?” greets him at the lobby. He’s not wearing a nameplate, and Jongin doesn’t ask for his name.

Jongin’s still disoriented as he steps off the tube. He stumbles forward to his cubicle and plasters his forehead on the table, indulging in a tiny groan that he hopes Taehyun doesn’t hear.

After a full minute of utter dreariness, Jongin blinks away the sleep off his eyes and sorts through folder after folder of projects that he needs to fix and send to FAD 7’s department head. He opens a pending project for Miruha, a company that sells sweets. Miruha wants Touch S Corporation to scan a person’s Key-In, sift through his Taggle account and send an advert according to interests and purchasing history, but the current privacy and connectivity laws won’t allow them to do so. 

Personally, Jongin’s glad it got on hold. It would be downright annoying to get e-mails and messages all the time, not to mention horrifying. Jongin does not absolutely want anyone to know how much he spends on fried chicken every week.

Jongin prints out the file. It’s a hundred and eighty-two pages long. He groans.

~O~

“Skeletons,” Chanyeol says with a dopey grin. He wags his finger.

Jongin frowns at his shirt. “Not cool enough?” he says. He bought it yesterday while he was passing by the department store. The saleslady said it looked great on him, the traitor.

Chanyeol’s laughter booms across the room, loud enough that several people on the dance floor turn to stare at their direction. He fills up Jongin’s empty glass, totally unperturbed. “Here,” he says. “This one’s from Hungary or somewhere. Try it, Jongin-ssi.”

Jongin smiles weakly. “No, thanks. I really don’t like drinking.” Alcohol is an acquired taste that he never really picked up on, not when he constantly feels like there’s this bomb waiting to detonate inside his stomach. “I only got one before since there’s no other place to sit but here.” He points at his shirt again. “You’re sure this isn’t okay?”

Chanyeol laughs again. “Seriously, grow a pair! It’s one of the lamest shirts I’ve ever seen. It’s what everyone under twelve wears.” He pokes Jongin’s cheek, and Jongin leans away from the touch, grimacing. “For what it’s worth, I think Kyungsoo would appreciate it. That guy knows no other shit but black.”

“Who knows no shit?” a hoarse voice quips, and Jongin whirls his head. Kyungsoo seems surlier than usual, and when Jongin looks down, the other’s hands are clammy shaking.

“I’m just telling Jongin-ssi the only thing I know about you: your favorite color,” Chanyeol says. He gestures for Kyungsoo to sit and have a whiskey, because the man looks like he’s in dire need of it right now. “What’s up, my terribly short, pseudo-best friend?”

Kyungsoo waves his hand dismissively as he takes the stool next to Jongin. “Cold,” he croaks. “Sore throat.”

“I’ll buy lozenges,” Jongin says. The convenience store isn’t far from here, probably just a five-minute walk, but Kyungsoo shakes his head.

“Later. Let’s.” Kyungsoo coughs, his face twisting in discomfort. His nose is pretty cute in that odd, stubby way, Jongin idly thinks.

Chanyeol ties the apron around his waist even tighter. “We’re already in the 21st century and we’re still powerless against the common cold, what the hell.” He exhales and places a hand over his forehead dramatically. “So now what?” 

“Don’t you guys just stillhouse it when you can’t?” Jongin says. 

Chanyeol and Kyungsoo both looked scandalized, and Jongin says, “What?”, because, well, _what_? Everybody does it nowadays, lip-syncing. It’s not that big a deal than it was back when Milli Vanilli, Britney Spears, and the 2008 Beijing Olympics happened. 

“No way! That’s the _foulest_ transgression in art,” Chanyeol claims. He takes away Jongin’s untouched glass and adds, “Hell, you’re so hard to please. Who _doesn’t_ even like drinking? My sister always sleeps with _Chamisul_ on her nightstand, come on.”

Kyungsoo sniffs and cranes his neck to look at Jongin. “People go here for live music,” he says, cheeks a little flushed. “There aren’t a lot of Hongdae bars like Club JJ anymore.” 

Chanyeol nods vigorously. “We tried lipsyncing before when Kyungsoo got sick and we were a little desperate, but it felt awful.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s not like any of us have a chance at stealing the market from those buggers in Core Entertainment.”

“Well, I wasn’t implying or anything,” Jongin mutters sourly. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Call Junmyeon hyung and tell him it’ll be a waste for him to show up,” Chanyeol says. When Kyungsoo glares at him, he chuckles. “Yah, be happy that you guys get to go on your date early. And I think hyung is thankful for a night off. We saw how he almost banged his head on a street lamp outside last week, don’t you remember?”

Kyungsoo nods grimly. “Junmyeon hyung. Too nice. I don’t like it.” He coughs again. “We’ll get going.” He downs his whiskey in one go, stands up, and peers at Jongin.

“Right.” Jongin follows him, and Chanyeol grins at them and hollers a “Get well soon, tiny” before they step outside.

They’re alone in the street, which is strange. It’s still early, but other than the parked cars and the occasional critters creeping around in the vicinity, the area looks like some abandoned neighborhood in a popular video game one of Jongin’s past lives used to play. He can’t recall which.

Jongin brought his motorcycle this time. He zips up his windbreaker and thrusts Kyungsoo another helmet, the one he bought yesterday after shopping for a shirt and found himself in front of a nice hardware store. It seems like Jongin’s buying a lot of things on whim these days.

“What?” Kyungsoo says, voice rough and snippy.

“Come on,” Jongin says as he mounts his bike. “Or do you want to walk?”

Kyungsoo puts on the helmet, and Jongin’s extremely relieved that he bought the right size. He sighs when Kyungsoo doesn’t move an inch from his spot. “What is it?” Jongin says.

Kyungsoo looks even more conflicted behind the visor. “I only ride motorcycles if I’m driving,” he croaks out. “I —I mean…” He stops there.

Jongin ponders over this for a moment, before sliding back. He keys in and turns on the ignition, and taps the empty space on the saddle. “You sure you can handle my baby?” Jongin says, challenges.

Kyungsoo’s too surprised to even snort at him. He looks lost for a while, lips parted like his breath has been snuffed right out of him, before he slips in between Jongin and the biopad wordlessly. He presses the throttle with Mijung humming in response, and Jongin wraps his arms around Kyungsoo’s waist. The chain in Jongin’s insides tugs and tugs, relishing at the contact.

Kyungsoo’s back is strong and toned against Jongin’s chest. “I’ll go slow,” Kyungsoo promises.

Jongin laughs, feeling a little dizzy. It’s currently New Years in his stomach. “Don’t insult Mijung. She likes it fast.”

Kyungsoo huffs at him this time, and they speed away.

They stop at a convenience store near Yeouinaru, and Kyungsoo keys in and buys honey lozenges. His cheeks are even redder when Jongin finally gets to get a good look of the older man under the bright lights of the convenience store. 

“You should’ve just called me that you weren’t performing,” Jongin says as he pulls the handle bar of the glass doors. He lets Kyungsoo through first. “It would’ve saved you the effort of going all the way there. You could get a lot sicker in this weather.” It’s September, and the night air is getting frigid.

Jongin watches Kyungsoo turn scarlet before the older man plunges inside his helmet. “I didn’t get to see you last week,” Kyungsoo says. He lopes his legs around the bike and takes the handlebars, and Jongin can’t see his face anymore.

“Wasn’t that on you?” Jongin says as he keys in and slides his arms around Kyungsoo’s waist again. “You never left your garage when I went to visit your sister last Tuesday.” He frowns, remembering the whole night his stomach had bubbled and waited for Kyungsoo to show up as an animated Cheolsa told him about a new pet they have at school.

“Well, yeah. I guess,” Kyungsoo mumbles. “But Cheolsa doesn’t seem like she wants to share you with me, you know.” He turns on the ignition and drives.

Jongin’s heart hammers against his chest, when the speed picks up. “Where are we going?” he exclaims.

Kyungsoo stiffens against him, and Jongin belatedly realizes that he shouted right into Kyungsoo’s ear. “Yeouido!” he shouts back.

They arrive at the riverside after three minutes. Tents scatter around like dome-shaped mushrooms, and the scent of chicken and beer wafts against Jongin’s nostrils. He locks the motorcycle with his key in and parks it behind a tree trunk near the bicycle path, and they head out to lie on the grass. They haven’t brought any mats, and the ground is very chilly, so Jongin opts to padding his windbreaker down on Kyungsoo’s spot. 

“I’m already warm enough,” Kyungsoo grudgingly says as he stretches over the jacket, and Jongin can’t help but laugh. The man definitely has a strange way of saying thank you.

Kyungsoo turns to look at him, wearing a bewildered expression. “Where did you say you were from again?” His voice sounds smoother this time, thanks to the lozenge.

“Grew up mostly in Daegu,” Jongin says. It’s sort of true. Yoonjae had spent his childhood and a good part of his teenage years there. “The winters are a lot harsher here, I have to say. Why’d you ask?”

“Nothing,” Kyungsoo says, his eyebrows knitted together. “Just… just curious.” He studies Jongin for a while, and then blurts, “You seriously haven’t been here to Seoul when you were young? Like, ten-years-old kind of young?”

It’s Jongin’s turn now to be confused. “Uhh, no.”

“Ahh.” Kyungsoo nods, more to himself. He gazes skyward and stays silent again.

_Does he —?_ Jongin thinks frantically, but dismisses that thought as soon as it came.

 

Jongin figures that Kyungsoo will never really say anything he doesn’t want to tell Jongin, so he doesn’t press. Perhaps being more attuned to Kyungsoo’s moods than to everybody else’s is a superpower that comes with being destined to soulbind with the guy. And Jongin’s glad — it’s kind of handy. He would have to grope around the darkness in order to get a good grasp of what Kyungsoo’s thinking and feeling, if it weren’t for that telling tightness in his chest and stomach.

Kyungsoo sniffles, and Jongin glances at him. “You okay, Kyungsoo-ssi?”

“Fine.” Kyungsoo rubs his nose. “Sorry for bringing you out here. I haven’t really thought everything through,” he mumbles the last part, perhaps talking to himself.

“Thought what through?” Jongin says.

Kyungsoo shrugs. “I haven’t considered that you might want to spend your night back at home,” he says. 

Jongin bumps his fist on Kyungsoo’s shoulder. His knuckles tingle like mad at the slight press. “Hey, come on,” he whines playfully. “And you said a while ago that you wanted to see me. Why are you being like this?”

Kyungsoo grimaces at him. “You sound like you have an awful lot of time.”

“I think I’m a pretty efficient guy, thanks,” Jongin says, pressing a hand over his chest and feigning offense. “I’m almost done with my proposal for my internship. And it’s not like I have anyone to hang out with back home, anyway, except for my kids. I hope they aren’t stuffing themselves with the kibbles I bought them yesterday.” Jongin’s worried he’s being too soft on the new diet regimen the vet had strictly advised him with. Monggu, especially, has a knack of plowing through three bowls of Alpo in just one night.

“God, I wasn’t saying anything about you being —” Kyungsoo halts. His eyes narrow. “Wait,” he says. “Kibbles?”

“Uh-huh,” Jongin says excitedly. “I have three toy poodles. Monggu, Jjanggu, and Jangga. They’re the sweetest children in the world. You want to meet them?”

“Yeah. I mean, wait. No,” Kyungsoo splutters. “Jongin-ssi, aren’t you married?”

Jongin blinks. His mouth seems like it suddenly got detached from his brain at the shock, and he stammers out a, “How in the world did you get that idea?”

Kyungsoo looks a bit shocked, too. “No girlfriend?” he questions.

Jongin scrunches his face. “No way!” How can he possibly have a girlfriend? “No, I don’t!”

“Boyfriend?”

What the — “No,” Jongin says as firmly as possible. “No wife. No girlfriend or boyfriend.”

“You don’t have any kids?”

Jongin has no idea where this conversation is going. “I don’t,” he says. He’s only twenty-four, for crying out loud. “Kyungsoo-ssi, look at me. Does it seem like I already have my own squadron of demon spawns right now?”

“Yes,” Kyungsoo says immediately, and Jongin gapes at him. He’s blushing, and that pretty much makes Jongin blush as hard too.

“Well, I don’t,” Jongin says. “You’re not just trying to come up with some sort of explanation for why I get along with Cheolsa, are you? Come on, I’m naturally great with kids.”

“I wasn’t insinuating anything like that,” Kyungsoo mutters, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Sorry.”

Jongin sighs, and his breath fogs in the air. “I’m not married, seriously. And if I am, why would it even be a problem?”

“It’s not, it’s not,” Kyungsoo says. His voice grates again, and he pops a lozenge to his mouth. “Well, you said you have kids before, so I thought…” His mouth curls to a frown.

Jongin scratches his neck. “Kyungsoo-ssi, I was talking about my poodles!” he exclaims, laughing a little. “I wanted Cheolsa to come to my place and play with them.”

“Who the hell even calls their pet dogs their kids? Who does that anymore, anyway? Fuck, whatever. I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo says, quite chagrined. “I just wanted to tell you personally tonight that I don’t want to have you spend all your Saturday nights in a shady club when you have kids to look after.” He blanches and coughs a few times. “Junmyeon hyung thought it wasn’t nice to have you around all the time, either. But since that’s not the case anymore…” He clears his throat. “Shit. Anyway, just forget everything I said.”

Jongin pauses. “Wait, what about Junmyeon-ssi?” he asks.

Kyungsoo shrugs minutely. “Hyung’s married.”

Jongin sits up. “Wow, really?” he says. “He doesn’t look like he’s…” He falls short on words. “I don’t know. A father?” Junmyeon doesn’t look he has the time to even be remotely interested in anyone at all. Or maybe, that’s the whole point.

“He’s got two kids,” Kyungsoo says. “Five and seven. The youngest one looks a lot like hyung with better hair, but they’re pretty great as much as kids go.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed Junmyeon-ssi’s already a dad or something.” Jongin hums. “What’s he doing singing at night clubs, anyway?”

Kyungsoo rubs his arm. “No clue. Hyung’s tight-lipped about everything he does outside Club JJ. He never mentioned anything or anyone except Chaeyoung and Jinsun.” 

“And so you thought I was already married because of, what, _that_?”

“Honestly, you and Junmyeon hyung do look like people who’re already committed,” Kyungsoo says, and then snorts at Jongin’s horrified expression. “No need to look so offended, Jongin-ssi.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that, yet,” Jongin says. He starts ripping at the grass blades and scattering them around. “Kids. Real ones. Having a family.”

“What if you knock somebody up by accident?”

It’s Jongin’s turn to roll his eyes. “That’s _never_ going to happen,” he says firmly.

Kyungsoo studies him for a short moment. He finally says, “You’re… probably right. The chances of that happening is zero to none, I guess.”

Jongin glances at him, and Kyungsoo nibbles at the side of his cheek. “You probably would never go that far. You like making promises,” Kyungsoo says. “And I get the feeling that you’ve already promised yourself to someone.” He shrugs again. 

“And I keep them, my promises,” Jongin says. “I’m very thorough about them.”

“And so you say,” Kyungsoo whispers. 

Jongin inches a bit closer, and sprays the grass blades all over Kyungsoo’s face. Kyungsoo glares at him weakly as Jongin allows himself to chuckle and bother him some more.

“Kyungsoo-ssi, maybe we shouldn’t skip the whole ‘getting to know each other’ part,” Jongin supplies and allows himself to smile again. “We’re not really that good at guessing.”

Kyungsoo indulges him after a minute before swatting Jongin’s hand away gently. The grass scatter all over the elder’s lap instead. “He purses his lips, and says, “Just call me by first name. We’re born only one year apart. Or hyung, if you’re more comfortable with that.”

Jongin thinks about it. “I like calling you hyung better,” he decides. His stomach viciously twists, and _woah_.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Kyungsoo says. He leans in and plucks off some of the blades that stuck to Jongin’s clothes. He then notices, and looks the younger man up and down. He chuckles. “Nice shirt,” he says.

Jongin feels light-headed again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo says. He smoothes out Jongin’s sleeve, smiling.

That’s when the dancing yellow lights appear before Jongin’s vision, circling the two of them, and Jongin’s jaw slacks, stupefied. 

Kyungsoo puts a hand over his abdomen and frowns again slightly. “You hungry?” he says, sounding breathless.

“A little, I guess.” Jongin leans back from Kyungsoo’s fingers before he does anything drastic.

“Pancakes and ice cream?” Kyungsoo says. He’s already standing up and offering his hand for Jongin.

It would be weird to decline, so Jongin takes his hand, and the lights flicker around like hundreds of tiny fireflies forming misshapen halos over their heads. Jongin’s palm tingles as soon as he lets go.

“Pancakes are for breakfast, hyung,” Jongin says to distract himself, hiding his shaking hands inside his pockets. 

“You’re so old-fashioned,” Kyungsoo says. “I’ll be the one paying, intern, so no shit from you.”

Jongin tries for a grin. “If you put it in that way, then it’s fine with me.” 

“You should be,” Kyungsoo says dryly, and Jongin just laughs out loud.

They scramble up from the dive. Jongin keys in and turns on the motorcycle, and Kyungsoo instantly lands his butt on the driver seat. Jongin bites back another snigger.

Jongin stretches his fingers. “So, what’s your favorite band?”

“Front-Killers,” Kyungsoo says. He puts on his helmet. “You?”

“The Cascades, but you probably haven’t heard of them.”

Kyungsoo hip-checks him, chuckling. “Well I have, but god, they’re really fucking ancient,” he says, and waits until Jongin holds on to his waist before driving towards the path.

~O~

The next Tuesday night, Jongin brings Cheolsa out to a steakhouse a few blocks away from the auto shop. It only opened a few days ago, and Cheolsa’s more than willing to abandon her ViReo and get out of the house once in a while.

“Bring her back before eight,” Kyungsoo says, mouth grim and sticky from not being able to talk for hours. His track pants sag on the floor like a little kid’s, and there’s grease stuck to his right elbow.

Jongin knows it’s not his place to feel a tad disappointed, but he is all the same. “You don’t want to come?”

“No one’s going to hold the fort if I do.” Kyungsoo waves them goodbye and retreats to his cave.

“Oppa loves steak,” Cheolsa tells Jongin once they’re out. Jongin can’t help but remember that Halmeoni once told him, in his previous life, that she’d always wanted to eat a huge, medium well one if only her dentures would allow it. He wonders if Kyungsoo likes it, too. 

Jongin offers her a salute. “Let’s get Kyungsoo hyung take-out. Should we get a medium well for him?”

Cheolsa gasps and pulls on his button down. “How did you know he likes medium well? Did he tell you?”

“Lucky guess.” Jongin smirks. “He’s isn’t the most sophisticated person out there, honestly.” 

Cheolsa giggles and wraps her small hand around Jongin’s big and bulky one. It doesn’t make the strange yellow lights come out like last time, or make Jongin’s stomach bob a bit funny, but still, Jongin feels great.

~O~

Kyungsoo brought mats while Jongin took charge of the food. They toast their drinks once the autumn breeze kicked in — Kyungsoo with a can of Cass, and Jongin with his Tropicana Twister.

“So,” Kyungsoo begins the interrogation after a hiss, cradling his beer with both hands. “Cheolsa says you like soccer? The traditional one?”

Jongin beams at him. “You can’t throw a keg party without a frat,” he says, and launches into a whole new spiel about the beauty of the Premier League. He’s definitely going to convert Kyungsoo into a Chelsea fan, even if the franchise got sold off five years ago.

Kyungsoo just nods along throughout, looking bemused and oddly fascinated at the same time, and has Jongin take a breather once in a while by ramming a few honey-glazed drumsticks to his mouth.

“Eh?” Kyungsoo exclaims, once Jongin finishes that one story about Juan Mata’s last-minute goal by corner kick. “But he gets injured a lot. That doesn’t sound great at all.”

“You’re missing the point, hyung. How’s a sport any fun if you’re not going to give it everything you’ve got?” Jongin says. “And frankly, a lot of people really need to sweat a little more.”

Kyungsoo snickers. “I do see where you’re getting at.” He takes a bite on his chicken and gulps. “But not everyone’s talented in sports. I can’t even dash through a hundred meters without running out of breath.”

Jongin shakes his head. “It’s not just about sports, hyung,” he argues. “People don’t even talk to each other anymore. They just Taggle each other.”

“Well, we get to plan whatever we want to say better than have our mouths run everything.” 

Jongin feigns a scowl at the river. He rests his chin on his curled up knees. “Ugh, you’re one of those people,” he says. “You’re letting the machines take over the world.”

Kyungsoo peers at the other man, amused. “Do yourself a favor and unsubscribe from those crappy _Futurist_ newsletters, Jongin.”

Jongin blows a raspberry at him.

“You’re the king of comebacks.” Kyungsoo grins. “You don’t even swear, I can’t believe this. How in the world did you even make it this far?”

“I’ve never uttered a single curse word in my entire life.” Jongin puffs out his chest, smirking. He’s immensely proud of this fact.

Kyungsoo kind of blinks slowly, like he’s taking it in, before laughing the loudest Jongin’s ever heard from him. “What a weirdo,” he says, grinning again afterwards. “Did your mother make you promise not to swear or something?”

“Not really.” Jongin pinches on the sore spot at the back of his neck. “I’m just trying to be a good person.” He really wants to end up in the Oasis, and he hopes that his two hundred years on Earth is enough to get him there, when all this is over. 

Kyungsoo throws a pebble to the water. “That’s like saying you believe in heaven and hell.”

“Well, there are a _lot_ of versions of it,” Jongin says. “Who’s to say that none of us got it right?” He shrugs, going for nonchalant. “So I don’t swear, just in case.”

Kyungsoo’s expression turns serious. “So you’re saying that I’m going to hell?”

Jongin backpedals, and stammers out a, “That wasn’t what I meant”, before he registers the amused look Kyungsoo sends him.

Jongin elbows him not too hard, because Kyungsoo’s a bit soft on the side, even if his arms and thighs are thick and huge and muscle-y. “Your sense of humor is downright _horrible_ , hyung, seriously,” he says, horrified.

“At least I don’t pout like a pelican and mumble a lot,” Kyungsoo quips wryly. “Chin up, Jongin, and quit talking to my shoes half the time.” 

“I don’t mumble, okay?” Jongin counters, and maybe he does sound a little whiney, but it gets Kyungsoo to laugh in no time. It also makes the fireflies invade his vision again, so it’s not that bad overall.

~O~

_“She’s gone.”_

_“G-gone?” Jongin says. “When will she be coming back?”_

_Miran shakes her head. “She’s gone, Changhun-ah. She won’t be coming back.”_

_“Oh. O-oh. Halmeoni…”_

_“You had been so good to her,” Miran says, holding him tight. “You were so good to each other.”_

_Jongin sinks in to the hug and cries._

_“You’ll see her someday. It will probably take a long time, but you’ll see each other again.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“You love her, don’t you?”_

_“Yes. I love Halmeoni.”_

_“Then it’s only a matter of time,” Miran says. “Halmeoni will be waiting for you, okay? Don’t forget that.”_

Jongin staggers up, eyes flinging open abruptly. He puts a hand on his nape. He’s sweaty all over, and he turns back to find his pillow and sheets soaked.

He kicks off his blanket and starts doing tumbles and jumping jacks until he’s worn himself out. It doesn’t do much good, however, when he strips off the sheets and dives to the bed and finds that he keeps seeing the whole thing, over and over, as soon as he closes his eyes.

It’s not the first time this happened, so Jongin is surprised when he finds himself taking his watch and pushing the PM button.

“Hello?” a voice answers. “Jongin?”

Jongin slightly regrets that he hadn’t turned on the face viewing option, since he’s positive Kyungsoo’s disapproving expression would encourage him to pass out. But he’s sticky from the waist up, and it’d be totally embarrassing. “Hyung, what are you doing up?”

Kyungsoo is quiet for a while, until he says, “I should ask you the same thing.”

There’s a loud screech of metal, and Jongin says, “Wait. You’re working? It’s already —” He glances at the watch. “Two in the morning.”

“I work better at night.” 

Jongin chuckles. “No wonder you’re always so cranky in the morning,” he teases. 

The drill sounds come to a halt. Kyungsoo seems to have stopped whatever he’s doing, listening intently for Jongin to say whatever he wants, the way Kyungsoo always does.

“What about you?” Kyungsoo says, and his voice is so soft. Jongin feels disarmed.

He rubs his eye. “I had a dream,” Jongin lets out, finally. 

“About?”

Jongin doesn’t know what to say, his cheeks heating up, and Kyungsoo must’ve caught on. “Is it a bad dream?”

“A little,” Jongin mumbles. He slumps on the mattress and leans his back on the headboard. “It’s not exactly a nightmare, you know, but…”

Kyungsoo falls silent again. Jongin can almost see his mouth agape and his big, round eyes darting everywhere as he thinks of something. “I can’t suggest you staying up until dawn. You still have work later. You can drink milk, if you want. They say it helps.”

“Right.” But Jongin doesn’t move away from his bed. He feels a lot more comfortable now, and he closes his eyes and drinks in Kyungsoo’s soothing voice and his even breathing instead.

Kyungsoo hums. “First time?” he says.

“Uhh — well. No.” Jongin scratches his head with his fingers. “I can’t call Lu Han hyung — he’s a friend — cause he’s a massive jerk and I see him almost every day, and I wasn’t really sure you were going to pick up, and —”

He’s interrupted by Kyungsoo’s throaty laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Stop rambling. I get it,” he says.

“You do?”

“Not really.” Jongin can hear that dopey grin in Kyungsoo’s voice. “You’ve checked under the bed?”

Jongin laughs in return. “No, I still haven’t. Give me a sec.” He raises the sheets and peeks. “Nope. No boogey monsters.”

“Good,” Kyungsoo says, and he sounds so pleased that Jongin has to laugh again. 

“You can always sing me to sleep,” Jongin says rather hopefully.

“What are you, four?” Kyungsoo says. “Go get some rest. It’s still so early for shit.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can’t wait to see you, too.” Jongin chuckles. He tosses the blanket over him, and it feels warm this time. A good kind of warm. “Night, hyung.”

“Good night, Jongin,” and Kyungsoo ends the call for him.

Jongin keeps his eyes open for a while, watching the ceiling fill with dark shadows. His thoughts sail to a time where Changhun once made a bunch of socks he never used into puppets, and staged plays in the nursing home while Halmeoni narrates _The White Tiger_ for him, and Jongin falls asleep.

~O~

Something drops on Jongin’s cubicle, massive enough to rattle the pen holders and the calendar on his desk. It turns out to be his final proposal… and Taehyun’s, apparently, taking up a lot of space and stacked as high as the Petronas Tower. Jongin had spent nights working on his, hands shaking with caffeine and his face embedded with a seemingly permanent frown while his dogs barked at him to shower as soon as the whole apartment reeked of his stink. He even cancelled two Saturday nights and had been entirely cranky whenever Kyungsoo called to check if he was still alive, and the end result had been a forty-paged proposal with no word from the boss.

Taehyun has his arms propped up on the divider, looking down on Jongin. “Compare and contrast,” he says, and Jongin’s stomach clenches.

Jongin doesn’t even want to look, but he dares himself and separates the stack. Taehyun’s proposal was approved, and — wait, Jongin’s passed too.

“Check the second page,” Taehyun says.

Jongin does, and now his stomach just drops and rolls away.

He looks up, and thank god that Taehyun has the decency to look apologetic, since Jongin’s aching to punch something.

Jongin doesn’t know what to do next. Luckily, Taehyun has a pretty good idea. “He’s back in his cubby hole, just got out of a meeting,” Taehyun informs him. He lightly pats Jongin’s shoulder, and Jongin’s too out of it to slap his hand away. “For what it’s worth, I seriously thought we could make a fucking good run for their money.”

Jongin’s not going to be an asshole about this, so he says, “Yeah, thanks”, and slips away to the back of the room.

The usual “breathe in, breathe out” routine they teach in yoga class isn’t doing anything to calm Jongin’s frazzled nerves, so he goes for it and knocks. He opens the door knob as soon as a “Come in” pervades through the door with a fancy golden plate.

“Ahh. Kim Jongin-ssi,” FAD 7’s head of department Lee Sanghoon grins up at him. “This is a surprise, but a pleasure all the same. Come, have a seat.”

Jongin’s not going to sit. He places the two documents on Sanghoon’s desk, all flipped to the second page. “Umm, sorry for disturbing you, but I wanted to ask why my name is not here,” Jongin says despite the fact that he already knows.

Sanghoon twines his hands together over the sleek mahogany table, and Jongin stares at them. “I have no idea how to tell you this. It’s extremely difficult.”

_Liar_ , Jongin thinks.

“Your proposal is exquisite, Jongin-ssi,” Sanghoon says. “Or should I say it’s a bit audacious — suggesting Miruha to abandon their usual packaging template and have them sell their candies in white packets with a generic typeface, well. It’s eye-catching with its boldness, and no one’s ever attempted that before, and more importantly, it’s cost-effective.” He chuckles, delighted, and Jongin’s fist almost flies to Sanghoon’s stupid face. “Everyone on the team was positive that it would work, so we decided to go with yours.”

“But you didn’t credit me,” Jongin says, and he’s amazed that he still manages to sound polite. His quota of patience must have risen to superhero level. “You credited Taehyun-ssi on his proposal for SAI’s, but I was taken out.” He swallows a thick, massive ball lodged on his throat. “Why?” 

“Jongin-ssi,” Sanghoon says. “Son, look at me, please.”

Jongin does, and Sanghoon smiles, though it does look a little frayed. “You’re a talented kid, and you seem to have a lot of wonderful, crazy ideas down your bunker,” he says. “But we’re in the corporate world, and that alone’s not going to cut it.”

Jongin freezes, and lets a freight train run over him.

“You hardly talk,” Sanghoon tells him, and the train runs over Jongin one more time. “We’ve had some… complaints about you. You steadfastly refuse your superiors when they ask you to go out with the team for a drink. You’re quite courteous with the clients, but you never even try to make small talk with them the whole ride in the tube, seventeen floors up and down.” He arches an eyebrow. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jongin says, looking down again.

“This is an advertising company, Kim Jongin-ssi.”

“I know, sir.”

“Here in Touch S, we succeed because of team effort,” Sanghoon says. “Our company thrives on enriching each other as well as ourselves, if not more, and it was a unanimous decision of us FAD heads. We all feel that you’re not entirely suited for this particular work environment.”

Jongin nods once, because okay, he gets it. He really, really gets it.

It’s quiet, until Sanghoon breaks the silence for him, “Unlike the rest of the interns, you’d be paid for your last proposal. We hope it’s enough of an airfare. Maybe you should apply again once you get your head around it. We’d definitely consider it.”

Jongin mutters the only thing that makes sense in the chaos in his head: “Okay.”

He bows, and he’s about to leave when he thinks of something. “Sir, what exactly were you waiting for?”

Sanghoon turns disgruntled. “We wanted you to stay for two more months,” he confesses. “Believe it or not, you’re a huge asset to the company, Jongin-ssi.”

It’s the most horrible thing Jongin’s ever heard, but he stops the dangerous prickling in his eyes just in time and shuts the door close behind him.

He goes about cleaning up his desk like a zombie afterwards. Taehyun’s nowhere to be seen, which is good, but the entire department watches him as he takes out his drawing materials and tablet from his cabinets and stuffing them inside a storage box. It takes a five-minute war in his head to settle whether he’d take his ID with him or just leave it there, and Jongin ultimately decides to embarrass himself once last time and shoves it deep inside the pocket of his blazer.

He takes the tube down the lobby, and Lu Han leaps off of his desk as soon as he sees Jongin.

“Hell, what happened?” Lu Han says, pointing at the box in his arms, and Jongin needs to get away from everyone, stat.

“I have to go,” Jongin says, his voice wavering at the last word, and Lu Han lets him pass immediately.

“Just promise to tell me everything later, okay? I got you,” Lu Han says, gripping on Jongin’s shoulder and squeezing it.

Jongin almost runs outside to where his motorcycle is parked. He ties his box to the saddle as securely as he can so that it won’t rattle as much with the heap of useless junk inside. He lopes his legs around the frame when his wrist watch pings.

The hologram screen appears, showing an incoming call. Kyungsoo’s always had the greatest timing. Jongin frowns deeply and rejects it. 

Another ping, and it’s a message this time.

_Jongin-ah. You okay?_

“Ugh, hyung,” Jongin mumbles, trembling, and the tears just spill out of his eyes like a shameless waterworks display. He hastily wipes them off with the sleeves of his dress shirt.

He lets himself cry a little more in the parking lot before putting on his helmet. It’s a good thing the visor is heavily tinted.

_Sorry, I’m a little busy right now,_ Jongin types back. _Talk to you later ^_^_

He hits send, and takes a step on it.

~O~

His whole room is cold, and Jongin wants to curl into himself and never unfurl. The box stays at the foot of Jongin’s bed, and his bedside table is still a mess of A3 papers and pens with different tip sizes, since he hasn’t gotten around to touching them and clearing them out as soon as he came home. He’s drawn the curtains, so everything looks a bit spooky. The shadows that Jjangu casts as she sniffs and inspects every nook and cranny in Jongin’s room feel sinister as they grow on the plaster walls.

He hides underneath the duvet and hugs his pillow tight, warding off everything as he closes his eyes tight.

Jongin should have seen this coming. Perhaps it’s his fault that he got too optimistic, and that he hadn’t gauged all the way how different things are now from what they used to be. Nobody cares about soccer anymore, or country music, or honesty. Jongin’s always had a difficult time keeping up, and really, how can this lifetime be any different?

He opens his eyes and stares at anything. His bedroom door is ajar, just enough for the dogs to stick their wet noses in and wheedle Jongin out of bed to feed them. There’s light streaming from the tiny gap, telling him that it’s already late afternoon.

He closes his eyes again, and remembers.

_You hardly talk_ , Sanghoon had said, and Jongin had wanted to yell and tell him that it’s not true. Jongin talks. He talks a _lot_. In fact, he never seems to shut up whenever he’s around Lu Han and Kyungsoo, and that’s got to count for something.

But in the office, everyone has wives, children, and fancy beach trips to some foreign, tropical island. They gush about their latest software upgrades, and the luxury spa that opened just across the building, and Jongin has nothing good to offer but obscure book titles and songs from the 1970s — and Jongin just won’t fit _anywhere_ , when paperbacks are already considered obsolete and everyone else’s reading stories off the internet now, and this generation has already forgotten about Michael Jackson, and — and… 

Maybe, maybe it really is all Jongin’s fault.

_It was a unanimous decision of us FAD heads. We all feel that you’re not entirely suited for this particular work environment_ , Sanghoon’s voice continues to sound chiding, and Jongin has no choice but to listen, since it’s all in his head.

Still, though. It really sucks. Right now, he thinks he’s entitled to mope around for a few weeks and wait until he feels better enough to pretend that nothing ever happened. Jongin just wishes that nobody would push him away again, the next time he tries.

~O~

Lu Han drops by on Tuesday, and he hasn’t brought his girlfriend like he promised. Instead, he’s got a bag of dog chews and a brand new shaving kit.

“Christ, you look like a stowaway,” Lu Han says in exchange of a proper greeting, and Jongin grunts and shares his half-empty mug of cocoa. Lu Han pulls a face in displeasure. “You’re so disgusting,” he says, but takes a sip of the cocoa anyway.

Jongin pulls his quilt over himself, like the old man he is. “I’m tired, Han, so no funny business.”

Lu Han scoffs. He strips out of his coat and steps into the danger zone, the mattress bouncing slightly at the added weight. “It’s practically every day a multinational company comes to screw you over,” he says. “You can always drag their filthy asses to court. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this.”

That definitely doesn’t make Jongin feel any better, but he doesn’t voice it. “They do have a point,” Jongin says resignedly. “And it’d be a total waste. I should be using all that time to get, you know, a real job.”

“Godspeed, buddy, with the IMF crisis and all.” Lu Han pats his back, before stealing Jongin’s mug and drinking everything. Jongin snorts.

“I do know a guy,” Lu Han says. “You’re not going to do any of the advertising stuff you love so much, but it’s not a crackass job, at least. I’ll have him contact you.”

Jongin nods solemnly. “Thanks, hyung. I really appreciate it.”

“And god, seriously, go look for something else to do, you know.” Lu Han ruffles his hair. “You should pick up a new hobby. I could see your tail wagging all the way from the front door when I came in.”

“Oh yeah?” Jongin drones out sleepily. “What kind?”

“Something that doesn’t involve me dropping by after five and making sure you’re not paralyzed on your bed.”

Jongin snorts. “You shouldn’t talk. You’ve invited your way in here. I could throw you out.”

“But you wouldn’t,” Lu Han says. He goes to the kitchen and comes back with two bottles of Gatorade. He passes one and rolls his eyes when the younger boy kicks him on the hip as thanks.

“I read,” Jongin says. “I walk the dogs until four every Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. I still draw and make designs and sort through my e-mail and stuff.”

Lu Han snorts at his drink. “That’s not a hobby.”

“ _The Herald_ says it is. I’m getting physically and mentally involved. It’s a hobby.”

“Like you enjoy shielding your pets from touchy neighbors and staying at home and sulk over how much a complete loser you are. Jongin, seriously. You’re not fooling anyone here.”

Jongin exhales tiredly. Lu Han’s trying his best to be the big brother here. Jongin should at least humor him. “Then what’s your definition of a hobby?”

Lu Han waggles his eyebrows, and Jongin scowls at him. “Hey, come on. I told you before,” Jongin gripes. 

“We need a new striker,” Lu Han says hopefully.

Jongin shakes his head, punching the couch pillow repeatedly. “I can’t. I’m not that good, and the virtual soccer team is chock full of evil people.”

“You’re not going to run into nice people all the time, Jonginnie,” Lu Han reasons as he bumps his shoulder. “And I’d be there.”

“You can’t trump nine of your team’s jerks even as captain,” Jongin says. He stretches his back and places a hand around his neck, at the spot where it feels so sore. “And you know how awful I am in video games.”

“Maybe if you’d stop acting like you’re a hundred-year-old relic or something, you’d get a proper shot at something nice,” Lu Han jibes. “What about dance? That’s something, right? You’re into that, the whole physical thing. I could get Binna to contact her street dance teacher.”

Jongin shakes his head fervently. “No way,” he says. “I’ll die if they put me on stage, hyung.”

“Dramatic,” Lu Han drawls. “Well, get a friend. I can’t be your only friend.”

“I’m starting out small,” Jongin says. Before Lu Han, Jongin didn’t have any friends.

He’s almost tempted to tell Lu Han about Kyungsoo, but ultimately decides not to bring him up. Jongin’s still not sure what to call themselves as of the moment, and saying “We’re soulmates” probably won’t bode well with the older man.

Lu Han sighs, almost in resignation. He’s not going to give up, Jongin knows, but he’s exhausted right now. There’s a sweat on his forehead, even if he’s only sitting down and it’s not exactly hot inside the apartment. He probably came as soon as his shift at Touch S was over. Jongin hands him a towel.

“Aim higher, is all I’m saying,” Lu Han says. He stares at the lamp on Jongin’s nightstand. “I don’t like you cooping up here all the time, waiting for me to pick you up or something. It’s not… good for you. Not good for anyone, actually.” He reaches up to ruffle Jongin’s hair again, eyes fond.

Jongin easily translates the quiet rush of emotion behind the elder’s words, even if it’s a bit unexpected. Lu Han thinks that Jongin is sad — not miserable, but just a lonely kind of sad, and he’s doing whatever he can to make Jongin feel like he’s not really alone all the time. It’s touching and humbling, and makes Jongin’s eyes well up with something.

It’s a good thing Lu Han is too tired to say anything more. Jongin doesn’t know how to respond with actual words.

“I’m okay right now, honestly,” Jongin says. He looks down on his holey pajamas. “When I decided to intern for Touch S, I didn’t even think I would get to run into you. And I’m grateful. More than grateful. I’m…” He dislodges the growing ball in his throat with a mighty swallow. “Happier than I was before, hyung. Seriously. You’re a great friend. I feel really lucky.”

Lu Han doesn’t turn to look at him, thankfully. Jongin won’t be able to handle the eye-contact just yet. “Well, I guess that’s good,” he says softly. “But you’re going to want a lot of things, Jonginnie. Maybe not now, but… I hope it’s soon.”

Jongin remembers reaching out and holding Kyungsoo’s hand, somewhere in Yeouido Park, and Kyungsoo smiling back as he squeezes it. The chain in his gut curls up and croons, and Jongin shakes his head again, this time to clear his thoughts. “I hope so, too.”

Lu Han makes a quick escape and turns on the TV. There’s a reality show about cocaine addicts going on a fishing trip somewhere in Japan. He makes them buttered popcorn as Jongin pretends to be engrossed on the show.

“So, yeah. We have this game next weekend with the Solars,” Lu Han says, finally, after a long stretch of silence. “Want to come? There’d be lots of girls. You should get some practice.”

“But I’m already fine with the girls,” Jongin argues, and Lu Han snorts at him so hard that some of the Gatorade comes spilling out of his nose.

~O~

It’s hot. The air sizzles with the immense sunlight flaring from the wide open window.

It had been probably hotter the night before, because Jongin wakes up and flings the duvet off of him and finds himself naked from head to toe. His clothes lie next to his feet, completely folded. He blushes, and wills himself not to get too embarrassed. It’s not like it’s the first time he’d undressed himself in his sleep, and had Lu Han tripping all over his clothes on the floor the next morning as he marched towards the bathroom to brush his teeth. Lu Han’s been sleeping over his place long enough to make peace with Jongin’s quirks.

After a quick bath, Jongin rolls back to the bed once more and takes a nap. He wakes up at one o’ clock in the afternoon, and he crawls out of his duvet and goes to the kitchen for a snack.

He brews himself tea and grabs an apple from the fridge. He slices it and peels the skin to form cute, rabbit ears, but then his hand slips and he nicks his index finger. 

Jongin yelps in surprise, and he accidentally elbows his mug off the counter. It shatters, the sound loud and ringing after a whole day of silence.

_Manic_ , a voice resounds in Jongin’s head. _Out of control._

“That’s what you’re going to be like with all the memories you have, and if you fail to contain them,” Margaret said. She instantly took in the stricken look on Jongin’s face, and added, “But you’ve already made it four times, so we should at least consider that. I have to say I’m impressed.”

“It never got easier, though,” Jongin admitted, and Thomas smiled at him sympathetically. 

“You’ve always been a special case, _monsignor_ ,” Marco quipped. “I think all the guys upstairs are rather fond of you.”

_Everyone’s just hedging bets on whether I’d fail to soulbind or not_ , Jongin thought grimly.

Margaret sighed. “It will be extremely difficult this time. This lifetime would have more than a century gap from your first life. You might never adjust.” Her expression turned serious as she exudes practiced calm all over borders of The Gateway. “I suggest that you bathe from the Fountain of Forgetfulness this time.”

Jongin shook his head. “This is my last chance, right?” he said, heart heavy. “I’d rather go all the way. I —I might need them. The memories.”

“Being so sentimental won’t help you, Jongin, but I rest my case,” Margaret intoned. “Just heed our warning. Please. For your sake.”

Jongin’s finger starts to sting, and it jars him from his reverie. A bubble of blood appears at the break of the skin, and he scours his kitchen cabinets for a Band-Aid. 

As he does, Jongin’s thoughts drift to Kyungsoo, and the man who started it all, the one whom Jongin met so long ago. When they stand side by side, it’s creepy how they resemble each other so much. They have the same build, the exact shade of black hair, and the same round, expressive eyes. The way Jongin reacts to their touch is frighteningly the same too, and he always gets this bone-deep sadness as his stomach sparks up and patches up the pieces of their many histories together.

Sometimes, he looks at Kyungsoo and sees him, the other man, and Jongin envisions all the things he wanted to say to him before. He thinks of Hun and Taeil, and all the previous lives where he lost his chance. Even if he’ll be reincarnated a thousand times, Jongin realizes that there won’t be any do-overs, once the moment has passed.

He then tries searching for the differences, and he does see some. The way Kyungsoo smiles is more subdued, quiet like the midnight rain, and perhaps a bit more tired than Jongin remembers from the other versions of him. Kyungsoo feels colder too, harsher and sadder, and he doesn’t seem to think of chocolates as highly as the man in Jongin’s first life had.

Still, Jongin feels a deep connection with him, and he can’t quite shake off the worry that he’ll end up doing something wrong when he stays around Kyungsoo for a lot longer. It’s been two weeks, and Jongin hasn’t returned any of Kyungsoo’s calls, and by the second Saturday, Kyungsoo had stopped calling altogether. He’s left with a lot of voicemails from Cheolsa, who asked for his address. Jongin gave it to her, but quickly added that he’s not exactly in a good shape to have any visitors come over for tea.

Jongin knows he’s too old to feel afraid, but — but there are times that Jongin’s struck with the desperate feeling of wanting to touch Kyungsoo. Sometimes, Jongin just wants to hold him and curl up next to him and have the lights buzz around them like fireworks. He wants to hold Kyungsoo and have him remember how much he has come to mean to him, has always meant to him, one of the thousand wandering souls longing for another.

Jongin crouches down and picks up the fallen pieces of ceramic. He has to be careful so that his dogs won’t step on anything and cut themselves, and gathers the shards in a plastic bag and dumps it inside a waste bin.

By the time Jongin straightens up, the image of Kyungsoo has already faded away, and all Jongin has left is the soft tingling on his fingertips.

~O~

Jongin has been lying in bed for hours, one dreary Saturday morning, and someone knocks on the door. He wages a battle of epic proportions in his head, and acquiesces to the bitter effort of putting on jeans and opening the door.

Kyungsoo’s glower is the first thing he sees, and Jongin steps back in surprise.

“You’re a dick,” Kyungsoo says, no preamble. His gaze doesn’t soften. 

“Umm.” Jongin shifts from foot to foot. “I can explain?”

Kyungsoo purses his lips. “Cheolsa wanted me to check up on you,” he says. “She wanted to know if you’d still come by the shop.”

Jongin’s stance grows rigid. “Of course I will,” he says. “I promised, didn’t I?”

“So? You won’t be the first one who ever broke a promise, Jongin,” Kyungsoo says starchily. He then flinches and hunches his shoulders, and Jongin has never seen him look so small. “Sorry, I wasn’t… that was out of the line. I’m really…” Kyungsoo nibbles on his bottom lip, stopping himself.

Jongin opens the door wider. “I’ll make us, uhh, something,” he says. “I’m not the best cook, but you came all the way here, so.”

Kyungsoo hesitates, sporting that cautious expression that has Jongin’s chest aching terribly. He finally relents after a moment, and follows Jongin to the dining room.

Kyungsoo’s eyes flicker to the antique theater masks and old pictures of terrace bean fields. If he finds them strange, he doesn’t say it, and it’s a sign that Jongin has landed himself back to square one.

“What have you been up to, hyung?” Jongin asks, because the least he could do is to try and be civil and start over again. 

Kyungsoo watches him turn on the conductors before he replies, “Nothing much.”

“Ahh.” Jongin fills the pot with water and sets it to boil. He takes out onions and celery from the fridge. 

“And you?” Kyungsoo says. 

“Umm, well.” Jongin fidgets. He won’t lie, that at least he owes Kyungsoo. “I… I lost my internship a couple of weeks back, so I kind of have been hiding out here all the time,” he says. 

Kyungsoo blinks.

Jongin continues when Kyungsoo doesn’t speak, mumbling, “I’ve been trying to get myself over it for a while, and it hasn’t… really worked out yet. Well… anyway. I’m sorry. For not telling you and your sister. If it still matters, I’m really, really sorry.”

Kyungsoo just keeps on watching him, and Jongin has to break the silence and say, “Hey, uhh, hyung? You still with me?”

Kyungsoo blinks again. 

Jongin’s stomach goes berserk again, and he starts feeling strange — like there’s sadness and anxiety and frustration all warring to settle inside him. They quiet for a while, but they don’t exactly fade away, when Kyungsoo takes a deep breath and stands up.

He moves to the counter and lowers the temperature on the boiler — Jongin hasn’t noticed that the water inside the pot has almost popped off the lid like a cork. He then sidles next to Jongin wordlessly, takes a chopping board off the hook and chops the celery. 

“Hyung?” Jongin says again, still stunned.

“White Warmer?” Kyungsoo asks, gesturing to all the ingredients laid out for the soup. 

Jongin inches back, taking care not to let any of his arms or shoulders graze Kyungsoo’s, since he’s sure the elder won’t exactly appreciate it. “Yeah,” he answers. He moves to the microwave. “Do you want mac and cheese?”

Kyungsoo nods, and so Jongin rummages in his cupboard and stuffs the Hyonbee inside. He closes the lid and sets the dial. Kyungsoo scrapes all the greens into a bowl as Jongin tends to the hot water in the pot.

After a while, when the microwave dings and everything’s been dumped inside the pot, Jongin says, “Are you angry with me?”

The back of Kyungsoo’s neck is red. “Not really,” he mumbles. He leans on one of the chairs, looking straight ahead, and the sadness is definitely winning in Jongin’s gut.

Jongin knows he’s pushing it, but still. “Can I come to the club tonight?”

Kyungsoo’s hands twitch. “Do you still want to?” he says with calculated slowness.

“Well, yeah.”

Kyungsoo nods. “Alright,” he says, and Jongin smiles tentatively at him.

They eat quietly, like always, and the conversation only starts once Jongin is done slurping his entire bowl of White Warmer. Jongin divulges that he’s been napping like a fat kitten for three weeks, and has nothing interesting to lay on the table. And Kyungsoo… well, it takes a lot of Jongin’s insistence before he starts talking, spouting random things like how the oranges in the market looked exceptionally orange this morning, or how he and Cheolsa passed by Myeong-dong yesterday and saw rabid tourists taking selcas next to a thousand Go Hyunwoo standees. 

“You sure there isn’t anything going on down your end?” Jongin asks further. It’s been weeks since he last talked to Kyungsoo, and a few more since they saw each other. Something might have happened that could probably top Jongin getting flaked out of his dream job.

Kyungsoo looks at him strangely. “There’s nothing, seriously.”

“Your life can’t possibly be as uneventful as mine, right?” Jongin says, smiling again to lighten up the mood. “Hey, didn’t you say you wanted to try that new Japanese place back in Wausan-ro? How was it?”

“I haven’t yet,” Kyungsoo says. He’s staring at Jongin’s fingers, like he’s inspecting them closely for dirt under the nails. “I only wanted to go there with you.”

Jongin’s lips form an ‘oh’, but no sound comes out. “We can go there later,” he croaks out, and he internally curses himself for making it sound more like a statement than a question. He adds, “You know. If you still want to.”

“Dinner?” 

“Yeah.”

Kyungsoo shrugs and takes his bowl. “Okay,” he says.

Jongin starts clearing the table, but Kyungsoo is quick to load all of the dishes into the sink. Jongin can’t help but stare after him stupidly while the elder takes over the whole clean-up process, inwardly berating himself for being such a poor host.

Kyungsoo opens the tap and squirts the dishwashing liquid on the sponge. Strangely though, he doesn’t seem out of place like this, with his hands covered in soap suds instead of motor oil. He doesn’t even make a comment about how Jongin still washes his dishes with his hands instead of using a dishwasher like everyone else.

When he’s done, Jongin takes a few steps closer and touches Kyungsoo’s elbow to get his attention. His heart flips when Kyungsoo turns to him with wide eyes, and Jongin gets this crazy urge to pin himself to Kyungsoo and never let go.

“Hyung,” Jongin says, his voice grating against the rocks. “Are you really not angry with me?”

There’s this long, bleak moment of silence, before Kyungsoo leans in so close that they’re almost face to face, like he knows that this is what Jongin wants. Kyungsoo’s face is deathly pale, and the bags under his eyes have sunken in deep, and maybe he’s having a tough time sleeping as much as Jongin has.

“Angry or not, it doesn’t matter,” Kyungsoo whispers. “You were everywhere, Jongin, and then you flew off the radar and you never… you never ever thought of even telling me or Cheolsa what happened. You’re actually only explaining it to me now because I came by to see you.” He whisks his elbow away and says, “Your score on the board is fucking off the charts, Jongin, but no — I…” His face scrunches up. “I don’t know why, but I’m not angry. Just… God, Jongin, I’m not the one who lost my internship here.”

Something white-hot stabs at Jongin’s navel when Kyungsoo opens his eyes again, piercing through him, and Jongin holds onto the rim of the sink when his knees threaten to buckle. “I’m sorry,” Jongin says quietly.

“I don’t need your apology,” Kyungsoo responds. He sighs. “Right now, I only want to make sure that you’re okay.”

Jongin licks his lips and replies with a “Yes”. He thinks he’s okay, sort of. Well, marginally. 

Kyungsoo narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh,” he says flatly.

Jongin tilts his head down, giving in to the urge, and places his thumb over Kyungsoo’s wrist, right above the pulse. “You’re here, hyung,” Jongin mumbles. “That’s seriously good enough for me.”

Kyungsoo stills. “Get dressed. Let’s get you some fresh air,” he says. He exits the dining room, and Jongin tightens his grip on the sink to restrain himself from hauling Kyungsoo back again.

~O~

After taking a quick shower and getting dressed, Jongin steps out of the house and locks the door behind him. He taps Kyungsoo on his shoulder when the latter starts kicking up the stand of the motorcycle. “Can I drive?” Jongin says, testing the waters, and he knows Kyungsoo’s really worried about him when the older man just steps back and lets him.

Jongin glowers as he puts on his helmet. “Kyungsoo hyung, this is weird,” he mutters. “You’re really supposed to act a little angry with me.”

“If you keep on insisting then maybe I _will_ be.” Kyungsoo mounts the bike and wraps his arms around Jongin’s waist, and it’s making the insides of Jongin’s stomach do all sorts of acrobatic stunts.

“Hyung,” Jongin says rather desperately, and Kyungsoo shushes him with a tap at his side.

When Jongin turns back, Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “This is why we need to get you out. Now drive,” he says. He holds onto Jongin tighter. “I’ll tell you where to go.”

Jongin looks ahead grimly and presses the throttle. They drive through the narrow roads, avoiding the freeways, while Kyungsoo shouts the directions to Jongin’s ear from time to time. Traffic is now a thing of the past, thanks to the more efficient laws for transportation, and Jongin loves the feeling of the wind pounding against his chest. It’s almost similar to the way he used to zip around towns and ride from Kumgang to Haenam-gun, back when he was in high school in his first bike, when he wanted to get away from it all through the calmer, country roads.

Jongin gets confused when Kyungsoo asks him to pull over by a grocery store. “Wait, why are we here?”

Kyungsoo jumps off from the motorcycle. “We’re getting groceries.”

“What? For whom?”

“Your fridge is almost empty,” Kyungsoo elaborates. He nudges Jongin to follow him.

It takes a while for Jongin’s legs to catch up. “You’re acting really weird,” Jongin declares.

The glass doors slide open after the full-body scan, and Kyungsoo takes out a red cart from the stands once they’re in. “You know what’s weird? The fact that you wasted a month slobbing up instead of finding a new job or whatever,” Kyungsoo retorts, ignoring Jongin’s feeble sleeve-tugging. He stops at the section filled with apples and berries. “Do you like cobblers?”

“Yeah,” Jongin says, and Kyungsoo dumps a bunch of blackberries and blueberries to the cart and wheels it to the next aisle with graham crackers. He dumps a packet in, too.

Jongin pokes Kyungsoo’s arm. “But I don’t know how to make cobblers,” he says.

Kyungsoo shrugs. He’s still not looking at Jongin at all. “Okay. Then I’ll make one for you.”

Jongin doesn’t know what to say to that; he scratches his head and trails after the man. 

They keep at it for the whole time they’re in Homeplus. Kyungsoo asks him to choose — “Regular or whole-wheat pasta?” — and Jongin only has to do a thumbs up or a shake of head, and the item either gets a holy seat on the stash or casted back to the shelf. They take a while at the dairy section, since Jongin can’t figure out for the life of him whether he wants to have them in bottles or in a cup, so he has to do this silly coin toss while Kyungsoo pretends not to know him and looks over the butter selection.

“I thought they don’t have that anymore,” Kyungsoo says, striding back with a small box of Yedi. He places it inside the cart.

The yogurt drink wins by a game of three to two, and Jongin takes a whole packet. “Huh?”

Kyungsoo jerks his finger to the general direction of the brass coin. “I’ve never seen a 5 won coin before.” He tilts his head to the side. “And you always have it with you?”

Jongin nods, grinning. His folks used to carry a pouch full of them, back in the day. He’s seen superstitions spring up and die throughout the years, but Jongin can’t help but hold onto them, sometimes. He traces the _geobukseon_ engraving with his thumb, before holding the coin out. “You can have this one, if you want. I still have a bunch of 70s coins in my drawer.”

Kyungsoo’s eyes widen. “But what’s it for?” he says. His voice cracks at the end weirdly. 

“It’s for luck,” Jongin says. “It’s like a talisman of some sorts. A soldier always has one with him.”

Kyungsoo’s expression softens, and he cracks a tiny smile. “Soldier, huh. That’s nuts, but okay.” He puts his hand forward, and Jongin presses the coin to his palm.

After paying at the counter, Jongin keys in and sets the basket on his motorcycle with a push of a button, and they load their bags.

Kyungsoo makes sure to fill in the empty spaces with crumpled receipts. “It won’t fall off, right?”

“Maybe,” Jongin says. He then blushes. “This is my first time doing the groceries, actually,” he adds. “There’s this… app thing where you could just order stuff online and pick it up at the entrance whenever it’s convenient. My friend Lu Han thought me how to use it so I wouldn’t have to go in myself.”

Kyungsoo rubs the tip of his nose and shrugs. “I know,” he says. “I just don’t trust anyone doing that for me, is all.” He jumps on the saddle and taps the front. “Come on. You driving or not?”

“I…” Jongin trails off and just gives up and takes the empty space in front of Kyungsoo.

They arrive at Jongin’s apartment not long after. Quickly, they haul the groceries inside the fridge and the cupboards, and Jongin drives them to Mapo. The sign says that _DJH•Riders_ is closed, and it seems like it will be for the rest of the day.

Cheolsa dashes out of the store as soon as Jongin parks them at the alley, and when Jongin finishes locking his bike, she hugs Jongin fiercely. Her head comes up only at his navel. 

“You’re here!” Cheolsa yelps, and Kyungsoo throws Jongin a _See that? You’re such a massive dick_ look.

Jongin strokes Cheolsa’s hair, feeling terribly guilty. Back at the grocers, he’d almost bought her a gigantic chocolate cake with cream frosting, but Kyungsoo had advised him not to. Cheolsa doesn’t accept bribes if it’s not action figures or dolls.

“How long has it been, Cheol? You’ve grown taller, I swear,” Jongin says in awe.

“A month and two days,” Cheolsa recites. She tugs Jongin’s arm. “Come on, come on! I think I just brewed the greatest jasmine tea in the world! Like, for real!”

Jongin laughs and lets himself be dragged around, with Kyungsoo trailing silently behind them. 

Kyungsoo doesn’t bow out of the tea party this time. Cheolsa pours them a cup each as the men sit down, and Jongin’s surprised when she takes out a deck of cards from her pocket and places it at the center of the makeshift table.

Kyungsoo peers at his sister, incredulous. “We’re playing _Sagwa-e Sagwa_?” 

“We couldn’t play before because there’s only two of us, but we’re only short one player this time, oppa,” Cheolsa says excitedly. She’ll be the judge for the first round, so she deals five red apple cards for each of them. “Remember how we used to play this with Mom and Dad every Chuseok?”

Kyungsoo’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t say anything and takes the starting hand.

Jongin looks over the green apple card. The adjective was _Exciting_. Jongin scowls, because none of the red ones he has on his hand fits. He doesn’t find _feathers_ or _lawyers_ exciting, so he places _baking cookies_ face down on the table and slides it next to the green card.

Kyungsoo does the same, and Cheolsa closes her eyes and shuffles the cards in her hand before opening them again. She sits up straight and compares them.

Then, she begins giggling hysterically.

“What?” Jongin says. 

Cheolsa flips both of the cards up. “I’m picking _baking cookies_ as the winner because it kind of makes sense,” she says, shoulders rocking with laughter. She jabs her finger on the other red card. “But who’s the dummy who picked _meatloaf_ for this one?”

“Hey!” Kyungsoo protests. “You like meatloaf. I cook it for you all the time!”

Jongin’s laughing with Cheolsa now, too. “Hyung, come _on_. Meatloaf is not exciting at all.”

“Says you,” Kyungsoo huffs, his ears red. “Fine. I’ll judge for the next round. See if you can win again.”

“You’re on,” Jongin shoots back, and all three of them begin squabbling again while they drink their tea.

~O~

The rest of the day goes on without a hitch. Jongin supposes that it’s the longest Saturday he’s ever had in his whole life, and honestly, it’s the happiest he’s ever been in a long while.

Jongin ended up winning first in _Sagwa-e Sagwa_ , followed closely by Cheolsa and with Kyungsoo dead last. Apparently, Kyungsoo doesn’t have a much voluminous vocabulary to keep him afloat for more than three rounds. His word choices were funny, though, so sometimes Cheolsa and Jongin took pity on him and gave him a pass for a few deals.

After dinner at the Japanese restaurant (it was awful), they set out for Club JJ. The bar’s theme for tonight was punk rock, and in turn made the venue extra cramped, but it wasn’t exactly a downside since it also meant a lot of people hollered and cheered for Kyungsoo’s band when they played. Jongin didn’t make it through the front row, but he still had a killer view by the bar stools, where he watched and listened as Kyungsoo belted out freakish notes Jongin never thought existed.

Jongin turns on the ignition. “Where to, _monsignor_?” he says, waggling his eyebrows as Kyungsoo leaps up from behind him. He hopes that Marco is listening and getting a crack out of this. 

“You’re going to be dethroned next week, so stop gloating,” Kyungsoo gripes. He puts his arms around Jongin’s again. “Same place, I guess.”

Jongin sniggers. They surge through the traffic, the howling night wind ringing in their ears. It’s the first week of November already, and signs of the upcoming frost are starting to show. Kyungsoo combats the frenzied flapping of Jongin’s coat by holding onto the ends with one hand.

It’s a little too cold for Yeouido, so there aren’t that much people left around the park in the evenings even if it’s a weekend. The foliage thins as they go deeper, and the path winds until it comes to a complete stop in an under construction site where there used to be daffodils in the forefront. They stay on the west side, where the lawn is let open for people to plop down. Kyungsoo orders for chicken and beer while Jongin splays out the mats over the slightly damp grass.

Kyungsoo yawns and stretches arms and legs. His biceps are astonishingly well-formed, and the skin underneath his shirt is porcelain white from the lack of sun exposure. Jongin looks over his own tan skin and frowns.

He sits next to Kyungsoo. “Hyung, do you never go out?”

“What do you mean?” Kyungsoo yawns again. He parts his lips a couple of times and wets them. “I’m out right now with you.”

“What about Chanyeol hyung? Junmyeon hyung?” Jongin asks. “I never see you guys hang out other than in the bar.”

Kyungsoo lays his forearms behind his head. “They’re busy,” he says.

Jongin frowns deeper. “But why do you always bring me here?”

Kyungsoo gives him a sideward glance. “Jongin,” he says. “Where are you going with this?”

Jongin swallows hard. He’s not sure, exactly. All he knows is that there’s no one around but them, and that he wants to take Kyungsoo’s hands and warm them up.

Luckily, an intervention comes in the form of a delivery guy. Jongin takes it upon himself to meet up with him at the path.

The delivery guy is actually a girl. She smiles at him wide as Jongin hands her cash. She looks over his shoulder while she takes out the plastic bag full of boxes of garlic-flavored buffalo wings, and she grins back at Jongin even wider. “He’s cute,” she says. “Just my type. Where did you manage to snag him?”

Jongin turns around, and he realizes with a jolt that she’s talking about Kyungsoo. “Uhh,” Jongin says smartly.

“Have fun!” She waves, perhaps a bit chipper for the cold night. Jongin tucks the beers in his armpits and walks back, squinting when he looks at the glare of the streetlamps. He puts the plastic bag down, and Kyungsoo’s hands make a hasty dive for one box.

Jongin declines when Kyungsoo tosses him a Cass. “I really don’t drink,” he says.

Kyungsoo throws him a bemused look for a few seconds, before shrugging and turning ahead.

Jongin licks the chicken grease off his fingers, and he kind of spaces out in between grabbing another bite and studying Kyungsoo’s side profile a little more closely. Because of the punk rock stage performance, Kyungsoo has his hair down for tonight. It makes him look a lot younger than he actually is, but Jongin doesn’t quite agree with the delivery girl. She hasn’t seen Kyungsoo with his bangs gelled up, though, so he’ll give her a pass. Kyungsoo’s really more handsome than cute, and he’s got a great forehead.

“You’re going to tell me something or…?” Kyungsoo suddenly says. He’s watching the lights of the bridge dance around with a steady gaze.

Jongin startles. “Uhh, nothing. Sorry.”

Kyungsoo wrinkles his nose and turns to him. “We’re going to have to do something with the staring,” he says. “Maybe you got fired because you keep looking at people weirdly.”

“I wasn’t looking at you weirdly!” Jongin exclaims. “And I don’t do that on the regular, for your information.”

“Right.” Kyungsoo sounds terribly amused now. “So why were you fired?”

Jongin pulls a face. “I wasn’t fired, exactly. I kind of walked out on them.”

“That sounds very hardcore, Jongin,” Kyungsoo deadpans. “Why did you ‘walk out on them’?” he says, making air quotes with his fingers. 

“Because I don’t ‘communicate’ enough with my co-workers,” Jongin says, making air quotes with his fingers as well. “My proposal was good enough to warrant me a month’s pay, but apparently my personality needs a lot of work.”

“It kinda does,” Kyungsoo echoes, and Jongin bumps their knees.

“I know that,” he says sullenly. “But what am I supposed to do, hyung?” 

Kyungsoo seems to think about it, and then he sits up. He urges Jongin to do the same so that they’re both facing the river. Their shoulders rub against each other when Kyungsoo leans his head sideways. “You asked why I always take you here after performances,” he says quietly. “Well, it’s more for myself, actually. I always get to think clearly when I’m here.”

“Oh,” Jongin says. “Am I supposed to do the same?”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “It’s been a month, Jongin. You’ve probably had enough of thinking,” he says. He tilts his chin toward the river’s edge. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Talk,” Kyungsoo says. “Scream. Do something. I don’t know. No one’s here.”

Jongin grows even more confused. “I don’t shout,” he says. He’s never exactly raised his voice before at anything or anyone, not even in his previous lives. In his first life, they were told not to speak up unless they were told to do so, back in the barracks. _“You know what wins a war?”_ the drill sergeant used to say. _“Rigid discipline and order.”_

“Why do you always need a demonstration?” Kyungsoo sighs, and then squares his shoulders. He takes a deep, deep breath. 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!” Kyungsoo yells. He sounds awful; his voice is strained from all the high notes he belched out earlier, so it cracks midway.

Kyungsoo punches Jongin on the shoulder when younger man starts laughing. “Now, you try,” Kyungsoo says, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to a river goddess,” Jongin says, chuckling after.

“River goddess?”

“Well, yeah,” Jongin says. “Isn’t there supposed to be one in every river?” 

Kyungsoo laughs. “Okay, sure. I think you can say anything to her, really. I heard she’s pretty cool.”

“That’s a horrible pun, hyung.”

Kyungsoo cranes his neck again to face the waters and yells out, “FUCK!” at the top of his lungs. He flashes Jongin a toothy grin when nothing spectacular happens. “See? It’s fine. Now go say something to her.”

Jongin tries not to think too much and says the first thing that pops out of his mind, “I hate corned beef!”

Kyungsoo laughs. “That was awful,” he says. He puts the heel of his palm over Jongin’s stomach, applying pressure there, and something hot inside Jongin spikes. “Say it again.”

“I hate corned beef!” Jongin squeaks. 

Kyungsoo presses even harder, and the fireflies start coming out of nowhere. “Come on, Jongin!” he urges. “She says she can’t hear you.”

“I HATE CORNED BEEF!” Jongin shouts, and the balloon inside his chest explodes.

Kyungsoo laughs and grins and yells at the riverside again, when Jongin turns to look at him, and Jongin’s heart starts hurting with an odd kind of pain, beating hard and loudly against his ribcage.

Kyungsoo discards his empty can of Cass inside the bag and takes out another. He takes a couple of sips and hisses. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Face flushed, he gives Jongin a wide, heart-shaped smile, and Jongin’s heart beats even faster.

“You’re drunk,” Jongin says helplessly. His chest is aching so much.

“I am a little woozy,” Kyungsoo admits, lying down again. A groan escapes from his lips. “Nothing serious, though.” He closes his eyes.

He mimics Kyungsoo’s position and spreads himself over half of the mat. “See, this is why I’m against drinking,” Jongin points out. He hasn’t recovered yet, and he seriously prays that Kyungsoo didn’t notice his voice wavering.

“I don’t like drinking that much, either,” Kyungsoo says. Beads of sweat glisten against the moonlight when he pulls back his bangs. “But it helps.”

_Helps with what?_ Jongin wonders, but he presses his lips together and pushes himself up so his and Kyungsoo’s face would be at the same height.

“Sleep it off, hyung. My Saturday’s up,” Jongin whispers, staring at the cloak of inky satin above them. “You’re driving me back home later.”

“Mmm.” Kyungsoo doesn’t say anything after that. There’s a small gap in between his lips, and long, even breaths escape to mingle with the late autumn wind.

Jongin takes this opportunity to watch the sparrows overhead and freak out a little.

~O~

He’s checking out a couple of books and periodicals when a girl eyes him strangely. Before Jongin can take in her bewilderment and say something, and she asks, “Do you have a library card?”

“Uhh. Yes. Here.” Jongin flashes her his e-card, feeling pretty nervous. 

Most of the tables are unoccupied today, and the shadows tower near the Main References section. Jongin wonders whether it’s a usual thing. He never stays inside the public library for too long. 

Jongin gulps as she slides the books back to him. “Hey…”

She looks up and smiles. “You okay there, kiddo?”

_Kiddo._ Jongin balks. “I’m uhh —” What is he doing? He sounds ten times worse than when he practiced on Kyungsoo. “Hi. Hello.”

The girl chuckles. “Hello to you, too, sir.”

“I saw your ad by the bulletin board.” Jongin shifts from foot to foot. “I want to be one. Can I apply or something? Assistant. Is that okay?” 

The girl smiles wider, eyeing Jongin not so discreetly. Her watch buzzes, but she ignores it. “You want to be a part-timer? I’m afraid we’ve already had some takers. But you should go ask the head if she can squeeze you in. She’s in her office right now, so you can just knock. Or do you want me to accompany you?”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Jongin says, retreating. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

She giggles again. “No problem.” She peeks at the e-card. “Kim Jongin-ssi.”

Jongin dashes to the lobby and steps outside. The snow has started to fall in wisps, coating the edifice. Kyungsoo’s waiting for him at the foot of the ivory white steps.

Jongin gives him a thumbs down. In reply, Kyungsoo lets out a low whistle. He crosses out the library address from a sheet of paper with a red pen. 

“Where’s our next stop?” Kyungsoo says, his throat stuffy and his nose a scarlet red. Jongin pinches it and inwardly relishes in the tiny sparks that rocket out of his fingertips.

Kyungsoo shakes his head vigorously for Jongin to let go. “What do you want to do now, Jongin?”

“I don’t know,” Jongin says. He taps his wristwatch, logs in, and opens his e-mail. “I guess I’m going to head to that place Lu Han hyung suggested.”

Kyungsoo grunts and flings the hood of his padded jacket over his head. They head towards the subway station, their boots making scrunching noises as it comes into contact with the pavement. “Why didn’t we drop by there first?” he says.

“The owner is Lu Han hyung’s friend,” Jongin mumbles to the snow crusted road. “It’s kinda embarrassing to ask for help.”

“You’re actually going to work for him. It’s not the same.” 

Jongin blushes fiercely. “Hyung, you don’t have to come with me all the way,” he says.

Kyungsoo nods. “Of course I don’t,” he replies, and just leaves it at that again.

It’s already noon. The wintry sunlight streams through the glass windows of the rattling train, and it hits Jongin’s face directly; he closes his eyes from the glare and sways along with the people standing inside the train bus. His insides coil and flip with varying degree of intensity whenever the person on his left bumps to his shoulder and to the side of his chest — Jongin’s fingers curl tightly at the handlebars as the gazillion yellow flickers build up at the black backdrop of his closed eyelids.

Jongin thinks that he’s not hungry for a full meal, so they head out to a nearby ice cream parlor, the streets eerily cheerful as Jongin and Kyungsoo walk side-by-side in silence. They pass by a lot of people in suit jackets looking down on their PMs, chatting animatedly with their friends or watching the news online or gasping about the latest stock drop at the Dow Jones. 

Kyungsoo pays for their sundaes. Jongin shies away from the foxy smile of a girl in her late-twenties who takes their orders, and Kyungsoo, who always seem to notice these kinds of things, rolls his eyes.

“That was rude,” Kyungsoo chides as soon as they take their seats. 

Jongin blanches. “ _She’s_ being rude,” he whines at his bowl. “I’m a customer. She’s not supposed to hit on me or anyone at all.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. The look he gives Jongin is unimpressed. “You’re attractive, Jongin. Deal with it.”

Jongin can feel his face flame. “I hate you so much,” he claims, even though the frantic bubbling in his stomach says otherwise.

Kyungsoo chuckles quietly. He then takes a spoonful of his sundae and licks his lips.

“I’m a year younger than you,” Jongin points out. Well, physically. “That’s like, three hundred and sixty-five days of a headstart on experiences.” Kyungsoo’s tongue peeks out again from his mouth, and Jongin’s eyes unconsciously follow its movement for a while before he manages to sputter, “Can’t I get a pass on this?”

“A pass on what?”

“You know.” Jongin waves his hand. “I really don’t know what I’m doing, most of the time.”

Kyungsoo’s eyes soften. He flashes Jongin a rueful smile, but stays silent.

Jongin levels his gaze on his bowl. His sundae’s melting rapidly into a jumbled state, like a pathetic lump of a snowman in early spring. It reminds Jongin of… well, himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Jongin blurts.

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry for being rude,” Jongin says. 

Kyungsoo pauses. “Well, she _was_ flirting with you,” he says vaguely. His thick fringe cascades over his eyes.

Jongin tilts his head to the side and gulps. “Is this okay?” he tries again, digging his fists inside his coat pockets. “I mean, you’re okay with me draping all over you? Whining? Hogging you? I’m fully aware that I’m not the best company.” 

Kyungsoo’s face turns into an impenetrable mask. Jongin hates it when he does that. “I’ve already lost count on how many times you’ve asked me that,” Kyungsoo says evenly.

Jongin tries for a grin, but it probably comes out as either awkward or sleazy, because Kyungsoo flushes. “I need to know if there’s a limit for the two of us,” he says.

Kyungsoo looks thoughtful. “The last time I remembered, you weren’t the one who conned me to play tea time with my sister.” He pokes at the vanilla before taking another spoonful.

“But I really like hanging out with you,” Jongin says. Kyungsoo darts his eyes at something over Jongin’s shoulder, and the younger man sighs. “But you’re not, you know, _chained_ to me or anything. Seriously. Just tell me if you’ve had enough of me.”

Kyungsoo’s grown so still that Jongin worries that he’d said something awful, but then the other man relaxes. He bends over the table and lightly whacks Jongin at the side of his head. With his bangs swept to the side at the movement, Jongin can now see that Kyungsoo’s eyes are… tender.

It doesn’t seem like there’s anything Kyungsoo’s going to add to that, and they fall into that familiar blanket of silence again.

After a few more blocks, they finally arrive at the building complex from Lu Han’s e-mail. The exterior is very austere, with chipping bricks and low-rise windows and a semi-transparent glass door.

Kyungsoo squeezes the other man’s upper arm in silent encouragement. Jongin can taste the chocolate stuck at the roof of his mouth. 

Jongin heads inside, and the somber receptionist redirects him to an office at the far end of the hall. He knocks, and hears a muted “Come in” before he turning the brass knob.

A pair of feline-like eyes watches him with interest. “Ahh, you must be Lu Han’s cute dongsaeng,” the man says. “Kim Jongin-ssi, am I right? Please take a seat.”

Jongin staggers to the chair. “Umm, yes.” He absently fiddles with the buttons on his coat. “I’m not Lu Han’s dongsaeng.” 

The man smiles. “Really?” he says. “He did say in his PM to fluster you as soon as you came in. He told me it’s an excellent ice breaker.”

Lu Han’s a bastard. “Hyung likes teasing me a lot.” Jongin laughs a bit breathily. “Thank you so much for having me.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. I’m Kim Minseok,” he says, offering a hand. His skin is cold, perhaps from the A/C being blasted at full force despite the weather. “Do you know what it is that we do, Jongin-ssi?”

“You make greeting cards,” Jongin answers. 

“Correct.” Minseok smiles wider, his cheeks turning round as peaches. Jongin almost doesn’t believe what Lu Han had said about Minseok being thirty-five. He looks around a decade younger than his actual age. “It’s simple, really, so I guess I don’t have to brief you thoroughly.”

Jongin nods and starts taking out his resume from the inner flaps of his coat, when Minseok stops him.

“Oh, you won’t be needing that.” Minseok rummages in his desk drawer and pulls out a three-ply stationery paper and a fine line marker. He slides it over to Jongin. “Think of the perfect card you’d like to give to your girlfriend,” he says. “And let’s see.”

Jongin stares at the blank card, and then at Minseok. “But I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says.

“All the more reason to get creative.” Minseok grins and takes his coat from a peg. He adjusts the collar of his button down. “I’ll come back after ten minutes. Just a rough sketch will do.” He lightly pats Jongin on the back. “Good luck.”

The door closes with a soft click, and Jongin turns back to the desk, discomfited. He takes the marker with slightly trembling fingers and plays with the tip of it.

A thought occurs. _Kyungsoo hyung_ , he types in his e-mail. _This might take a while. I’m sorry :(_

Jongin goes fiddling with the marker again when his watch dings. _Ok. Just tell me when you’re done._

Jongin stares blankly at the screen for a few seconds before he realizes that Minseok wouldn’t probably appreciate him spacing out and coming up empty-handed and gets to work.

~O~

Kyungsoo has his right hand dunked inside a pack of spicy cracklings when Jongin comes out. He gulps and eyes the younger expectantly. “Well?”

Jongin can’t do it; he has a terrible poker face, and Kyungsoo’s thick eyebrows rise up instantly. “Wow,” he says, taking in Jongin’s reddening cheeks and quivering lips. “Should I say congrats, or is it way too early?”

Jongin grins. The city must’ve held his breath along with him, and now the wind blows against their bodies, rough with relief. “You pick. Either way, I’ll be starting on Monday. Gosh, I’ll even have my own desk, hyung, can you believe it?”

Kyungsoo seems like he’s trying his best to look serious. “I really can’t,” he says. He presses Jongin the cracklings to his chest, the foil crinkling loudly, and leads them to the less slippery part of the sidewalk. “What did they make you do?”

Jongin takes a mouthful and swallows. “I made a love card.”

“A love card,” Kyungsoo repeats, the ends of his lips twitching. He holds out a gloved hand, wiggling his fingers, and Jongin hands him the rough sketch, the one he made for fifteen minutes.

“The number of bears and hearts in this card is obscene,” Kyungsoo mumbles. He flips it open, and abruptly stops walking.

When their eyes meet, Kyungsoo starts spluttering, and he just full-on _laughs_ , his voice startlingly deep with each syllable spaced in long draws of breath, like he doesn’t laugh hard that often and he’s out of practice. 

“This is brutal,” Kyungsoo says, shoulders quaking as he heaves. “ _‘You don’t love me…’_ ” He turns the flap, and a tulip pops out. “ _‘…yet. But I’m sure this will change your mind.’_?” He laughs again. “Holy hell.”

“That got me hired in the spot. Show some respect,” Jongin says, grinning despite himself. 

“It’s a _pop-out card_ ,” Kyungsoo says. “Of a _flower_.”

“If you think it’s so ugly, then maybe you should have it,” Jongin retorts.

Kyungsoo mock punches him in the gut. “I didn’t say it was ugly, stupid,” he says. He tucks it inside his coat pocket and chuckles. “Wait ‘til Cheolsa sees this.”

They take a shortcut, the one near Exit 8. There’s an onslaught of people coming out from Hongik University and from the adjacent restaurants. “Well I think she’s going to love it,” Jongin says confidently.

Kyungsoo just shakes his head and chuckles again but doesn’t correct him.

~O~

The tea set between them today is brand new. Cheolsa says that her parents sent it to her last week. An exquisite piece from London. It looks classy and expensive, but ten times more fragile. He can tell by the way Cheolsa bends over even more as she clasps the handle of the teapot and pours the tea.

Jongin blows the steam from the cup precariously and scatters it in the air with a soft brush of the hand, and listens as Cheolsa talks about her new favorite subject in school: art.

“We got to make sculptures out of ice!” Cheolsa beams. “I wanted to make a Dew figurine but her nose fell off when I tried carving her face. But my teacher told me it still looked like her so she gave me a star!”

“That sounds great, Cheol,” Jongin says. “Maybe you could go to an art school after 6th grade. Or maybe you could go to college and study and make art.”

Cheolsa’s eyes go out of focus, thinking. “That’s where the older people go to school, right?”

“Yeah,” Jongin says. “I went to CAU and studied media design. I didn’t join any clubs while I was a student, but I heard there was this really great art society that made ice sculptures for exhibits.” 

“Ahh.” Cheolsa adjusts her posture and shakes her head. “But I don’t think I want to go.”

Jongin inclines his head towards her. “Wait, why not?” 

She places her cup down on the saucer gingerly. “Oppa didn’t go to college,” Cheolsa informs him. “I don’t think I need to go, too.”

Jongin almost drops his teaspoon, his eyes widening. “Really?”

Cheolsa laughs a tinkering laugh. “Kyungsoo oppa doesn’t like studying,” she says. She pours herself another cup and puts a cube of sugar in it. “The teachers always say he doesn’t listen to lectures, and that his brain is always far away when they call him up in class.”

“Oh,” Jongin breathes. “He never told me that.”

“Well, you could always tell,” Cheolsa says, grinning after. “The only things oppa likes are cars and movies.”

_And singing_ , Jongin adds glumly in his head. “When did your parents leave to umm, work overseas?”

“When I was five,” Cheolsa answers promptly as she reaches out and pushes in more treats to her mouth. 

Jongin starts counting back the years with his fingers, and then bites his lower lip. 

_They haven’t been home for a long time_ , Kyungsoo had said, the first night they went out. _I’ve been running the shop myself since high school._

Jongin tries to dislodge the growing ball in his throat with more tea, but it doesn’t work. So he coughs it out and says, “If your brother didn’t go, that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t.” He plays with her fingers, and she giggles. “Besides, you’re way smarter than hyung.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it,” Cheolsa says. 

They eat rice cakes served in teeny tiny plates. Jongin lets her pick first before taking three pieces to his own plate. The clangor of teaspoons hitting the rim of their cups as they stir reminds Jongin of Junmyeon’s piano and Chanyeol’s drums, and Kyungsoo’s voice leading the ballad to a sad finish.

“Hyung really takes good care of you,” Jongin starts. He doesn’t know what prompted him to say it, but perhaps there’s something that he’d like to make sure.

Cheolsa nods vigorously. “He’s boring, but he never ever picked fights with me,” she says quite proudly. “My friends say that it’s super weird that we never fight, but that’s oppa for you.” She grins mischievously, and Jongin can almost picture a younger version of Kyungsoo smiling like that too. “He always lets me get what I want.”

“So he spoils you,” Jongin says and chuckles. “Right. I guess that’s not out of the ordinary. Is he like that with his other friends?”

Cheolsa pauses from her sipping. “What do you mean?” she says. “Your oppa’s only friend.”

Jongin’s thoughts come to a screeching halt. “Wait, Cheol,” he says, reeling. “What did you say?”

“Jongin oppa and Kyungsoo oppa are friends, right?”

“We are,” Jongin replies.

Cheolsa looks at him in confusion. “Then why are you asking, oppa?”

“You said ‘only’,” Jongin clarifies. His mouth goes dry, so he quaffs more tea again. When he’s done, he says, “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

“I thought only smart people can go to college,” Cheolsa joshes. “You’re oppa’s only friend. You’re the only one. I don’t know how to explain it better.”

Jongin laughs awkwardly, scratching his ear. “That can’t be true,” he says. “I mean…” His knees bump on the table rather painfully. There’s probably more to that, Jongin thinks. Kyungsoo’s clearly better with people than he is.

“I never saw him with anyone else, and he never mentioned anyone other than you,” Cheolsa says, shrugging. She lifts the lid of the pot. “Would you like me to brew more?”

“Oh, no need. I think I’m good already, thanks.” The tea squelches around Jongin’s stomach, anxious. “Maybe hyung just hangs out with them quietly,” he mumbles, and bites his tongue. He doesn’t exactly have anyone else to ask out on Saturday nights, either, so he can’t make any assumptions.

Cheolsa doesn’t make an effort to hide the fact that she’s dubious. She shrugs again. “Kyungsoo oppa doesn’t talk with his high school classmates anymore. They must’ve lost touch.”

“Oh.” Jongin pushes away his empty cup. “That’s too bad. Hyung’s pretty awesome company.” He keeps his head down. “I think he spoils me too, sometimes.”

Cheolsa titters loudly. “Of course he does.” She tugs on the strands of hair that escaped from her headband and beams. “Oppa likes you very much,” she says.

His chair stills, and Jongin belatedly realizes that he’s been jerking his leg up and down. He clears his throat twice. “Uhh, I guess,” he says. His nails are long. He should trim them. “I like Kyungsoo hyung a lot too. We get along, just like you two.”

“I’m his baby sister, oppa,” Cheolsa says, wrinkling her elfin nose. “You’re different. We’re not the same.”

“Right,” Jongin says hoarsely. His chest throbs.

~O~

The sun is shining brightly outside.

Despite the cheerful weather, Jongin sleeps through his alarm clock. The biting breeze through his open window in the afternoon is the only thing that manages to wake him up, frost lingering at the vulnerable spots of the window sill. 

Drowsy, Jongin slinks away from the sheets. His head pounds a little; he rubs his temples as he adjusts the knot on his sweatpants, tightening them. He smells like sweat and chicken soup that’s gone stale. Jangga whinnies at his leg as soon as he comes out of the door, and Jongin crouches to pet him aggressively.

“No more food,” Jongin says. “You guys are on diet, okay?”

Jangga barks at him.

Jongin laughs, throat dry and sandy. “I’m hungry, though. Keep me company and maybe I’ll think about it.”

There’s a mug of freshly made cocoa on the marble counter when Jongin enters the kitchen, making him stop dead in his tracks. A light brown-haired woman sits on one of the chairs wearing a simple white frock, her mouth pulled down in a severe frown.

“Sleep, eat, then sleep some more.” Margaret snorts over her own mug. “Men and pigs.”

“It’s Sunday. It’s the only day I get to stay in,” Jongin manages to croak out.

Margaret snorts again, duly unimpressed, and Jongin hesitates against the wooden frames. He pinches himself to check if he’s dreaming. He’s not.

“What are you doing here, Margaret-ssi?” Jongin says.

Margaret throws him a look, like she’s been slighted. “Why don’t you take a seat first and drink?” she says. It sounds like it’s not up for him to decide what to do next, so Jongin moves closer.

As soon as he takes his mug and sits, Margaret gets down to business, “What do you think you’re doing, Jongin?” she says. “Have you forgotten that this is your last chance at rebirth?”

Jongin’s forehead crinkles. “No, I haven’t. Of course I haven’t.”

“I don’t understand,” Margaret says, sounding every bit as frustrated as Jongin is bewildered. “Why haven’t you done it yet?”

_Done what yet?_ “Margaret-ssi, I don’t think I —”

“It’s not that hard,” Margaret tells him. “You and Kyungsoo have every requirement there is to be able to have your souls bind, but so far, we have found that there has been no change in your link whatsoever. Not even in the slightest.” She breathes loudly through her mouth. “You said you wanted to soulbind, and you are wasting this precious opportunity.”

“I…” Jongin blinks rapidly and runs a shaking hand through his hair. “I didn’t really think there’s something I should do.”

“Of course there is. You have to touch him,” Margaret says. “You’ve felt how it’s like when you do, but you don’t back away from it.”

Jongin’s gut is in knots. “But I can’t do that. That’ll be weird,” he argues. “Margaret-ssi, Kyungsoo hyung doesn’t _know_.”

“That’s not supposed to be the problem in the first place.” Margaret purses her lips. “Touch him a lot, and the link between your souls will strengthen. You said you wanted to meet him and soulbind. That is why you’re here.”

“I know what I said,” Jongin snaps, and it probably comes out harsher than he intended that Margaret gapes at him in surprise. He recollects himself and continues, “Maybe it’s okay if I don’t soulbind with him. I’ve met him, and we’re almost the same age this time. We’re good friends.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Maybe it’s better if I don’t push it.”

“I am really failing to understand,” Margaret says slowly as she links her hands together over the table. “I am sure Marco has told you about what happens when people soulbind.”

“He did.”

“You get to stay in the Isles, the inner circle of the Oasis, once you’ve reached the afterlife,” she says. “The ultimate promise of eternal happiness and love. That’s what you want for yourself and for your soulmate.”

“Yes. I still do.”

Margaret scowls and pushes back her chair, standing up, and Jongin makes a drowning noise in his throat.

“Margaret, Kyungsoo doesn’t remember me,” Jongin says. His skin suddenly feels too hot, and his lungs feel like they want to burst. “He… he doesn’t remember me.”

Margaret stops. She looks down on Jongin’s forlorn expression. “What is there to even remember?” she says. Her shoulders have grown rigid. “You two hadn’t spent as much time in your previous lives compared to now. They are all inconsequential.”

“No, they’re not. They matter a lot to me,” Jongin murmurs. He doesn’t know how to explain it to her, because even Jongin doesn’t understand it well. It’s just that sometimes, he would catch Kyungsoo look at him, and Jongin has to push down the bubbling expectation that Kyungsoo recognizes him, _all_ of him. 

“It just…” Jongin inhales. “It feels wrong that I know how he looks like when he’s fourteen, and when he’s seventy-three, and that he likes key-lime pie without the crust, and I have to catch myself from referencing things he should know but he doesn’t.” Jongin’s lips tremble. “I can’t — I can’t ask him to link his soul to mine forever. It’s not fair. He doesn’t know.”

“To be honest, you don’t have to ask him for permission to soulbind. But I do get what you mean,” Margaret says, her tone a little gentler this time. “But if you tell him, do you think he will believe you? Who’s to say that he will take it well?”

“Can’t you just give him his memories back?” Jongin says. “I don’t care if you don’t give him all of it. Just memories of me will be enough.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that. He’s already bathed in the Fountain of Forgetfulness. For this lifetime, all the memories he’ll acquire will only be the new ones you’ll make with him,” Margaret says. She goes around the table and gives him a light pat on the shoulder, and Jongin’s eyes sting.

“His soul is basically the same,” Margaret says. “You’ve seen that already, from the four different lifetimes you’ve met him. Memories are what they are — for familiarity — but love and friendship come from the soul.”

“I know,” Jongin whispers desolately.

Margaret shakes her head and squeezes his shoulder. “I don’t think you do, Jongin,” she says. “You’ve come to love Kyungsoo for his soul, which is more than I can say for most people.”

Jongin bites his lip. “You really think our souls will bind together if I try?” he says. “You really think it’ll hold?”

Margaret smiles wryly. “Compared to you, I know a lot of things. I have been a judge for a long, long time.” She shuffles out of the kitchen and leaves the light on for him.

~O~

It’s the coldest time of the year. Jongin’s chocolate cake is a soggy, surly mess on his plate.

“‘U.S. Women’s Soccer Team Beats Australia 3-1’,” Lu Han narrates from the CNN headline in Mandarin as he scrolls down on his screen. He takes one look at Jongin, and says, “That didn’t cheer you up, did it?”

“I follow Premier League and La Liga, hyung, not FIFA Women’s.” Jongin forks his cake, and it sags even more. He grumbles. “But that sounds great too.”

“You’re cheap, and a phony elitist,” Lu Han says. “Your old man Torres is busy deep-throating Ronaldo from retirement. This new team that swallowed Chelsea is even _more_ terrible than they were before.”

Jongin scoffs. The only time Lu Han lets out the extra sass is when they’re talking about soccer, so he lets it fly. “Don’t sit on my desk,” Jongin says. “Minseok hyung would get angry.”

Lu Han beams. “Oh, he won’t. Our five years of being pen-pals will back that up,” he quips, but he moves to sit down on the chair right next to Jongin’s. “I brought you a congratulatory cake,” he adds. “It’s chocolate.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re going to make it rain,” Lu Han informs him. “And I have to say, I hate rain more than snow.”

Jongin looks up from his drawing tablet. He’s supposed to work on the next line of cards, Season’s Greetings in fancy, curly scripts and big snowmen and everything, but nothing new is hitting him so far. He abandons his pen and takes a bite off his fork, but it makes Lu Han frown even more.

“You know, for a second there, you made me think that you don’t like this job,” Lu Han says. “But Minseok called me a week ago to say you’ve practically jumped on him when he gave you a thumbs up, so what gives?”

“Just not feeling well today,” Jongin mumbles. His stomach keeps on flipping like burger patties.

Lu Han laughs. “Out of all days, you pick right now to feel all gloomy. I should be offended.” He gets a chunk of the cake with his fingers and eats it, licking his fingers. He holds out his palm. “Show it to me.”

Jongin eyes his hand in bewilderment. “What?”

“The card. The first one you made.”

“What? Why?”

“Minseok said it was great.” Lu Han looks confused now, too. “I mean, he said it was _sappy_ and all —”

“I don’t have it with me anymore,” Jongin says and keeps his head lowered again. He restarts his tablet and starts drawing lakesides and canopies covered in snow. “I gave it to someone.”

The older man sits up straight. Trust Lu Han to have a nose of a bloodhound. “Who?” he demands, a smile lurking at the ends of his mouth.

“A friend,” Jongin says, hoping Lu Han would notice how clammy he is to let it drop.

He doesn’t. “But you don’t have any friends,” Lu Han baits him, and Jongin is stupid enough to take it and step on the elder’s foot.

“Well I do now,” Jongin says. There are literally sparks flying out of his vision, just thinking about — “You’re the one who said I should go out and interact and get a hobby.”

“And I’m not taking it back, Christ. All I wanted to know is the name of this mystery person who’s making your whole face all red.” Luhan grabs Jongin’s fork and pokes it to his side. Jongin winces. “Spit it out. Who is she?”

Jongin’s face flames. “Come on, hyung. I need to work here.”

“Holy shit, Jongin. It’s a he, isn’t it?” He laughs when Jongin hides his face in his hands. “It’s a he? You gave a super romantic Valentine’s card to a he!”

“He’s not some doll, shut up,” Jongin defends. And then, his brain suddenly thinks that, well, Kyungsoo does look like a doll sometimes, when he’s just standing still and not getting all grouchy at Jongin. He shakes his head adamantly and says, “Shut up” again, to will the fireflies to go away.

“That was code for, ‘Give me a name, man’.” Lu Han chortles. “Quit being such a pooper. What’s your friend’s name?” The way he says “friend” makes Jongin feel like he’s getting planked.

Jongin lets himself be dragged. “Kyungsoo,” he says, incapacitated. “Do Kyungsoo.”

Lu Han grins, and starts fiddling with wrist watch and opens Taggle. Jongin purses his lips. “You’re not going to find anything in there, hyung,” he says. “I already checked —”

Lu Han clicks on a photo album, and the screen shows a picture of Kyungsoo curled up on the floor — he’s in the garage, Jongin recognizes — barefoot, in a sweatshirt so large that it sags over his shoulders and covers up his whole hands. His cap is strewn at the side.

_my oppa works so hard these days ^_^ hwaiting!!!!_ , the caption says. 

“Do Cheolsa,” Lu Han reads the poster’s name. He points at the number of likes and comments on the photo. “Huh. Looks like your Kyungsoo’s popular with his sister’s crowd.” 

Jongin’s jaw drops, and he scootches closer to Lu Han. He swipes the screen, looking over Cheolsa’s online photo album filled with candid photos of Kyungsoo working (or sleeping) at the garage. There’s one with his hair all droopy, fresh from the shower, crouching in front of a Volvo’s rear wheel. And there’s one with his sleeves all rolled up to reveal strong forearms, fixing the engine crankshaft. “How did you…?”

“Stalking 101, gramps. If the guy’s page is empty, you look for his affiliates.” Lu Han chuckles. “In this case, his sister.”

_ㅠ.ㅠ Kyungsoo oppa is so handsomeㅠ.ㅠ_ , a comment at the photo of Kyungsoo’s veiny, oil-slicked hands reads. Jongin flushes despite himself.

Lu Han lets out a low whistle. “You have my seal of approval, Jonginnie,” he says, grinning. He elbows Jongin’s side. “This Kyungsoo guy looks hot without looking like a total tool.”

Jongin closes the page immediately. “I might have to talk with Cheol,” he mutters. “Kyungsoo hyung probably doesn’t know that she has pictures of him all over Taggle.”

Luhan’s eyebrows shoot up at the word “hyung”. “Of course you’re into older guys. _Of course_.” He guffaws, his lower jaw unhinging strangely. “Does he take care of you well, you big, slobby baby?”

Jongin is literally going to die of embarrassment if his wailing stomach doesn’t get to him first. “Stop it, hyung, seriously. You’re not helping.”

That gets Lu Han to quiet down. “Aww, hey, man. Come on, I was only teasing.” He purses his lips. “Did he reject you or something? Is that why you’re all grumpy and shit?”

“Wait, what? No, of course not. It’s not that,” Jongin says. He grips on his pen, and the lines turn jagged. “I didn’t confess or do anything like that — we’re not in that kind of relationship, Lu Han hyung. I swear.”

Lu Han sits back on his chair, arms crossed. “Yeah? What are you two, then?”

“We’re friends.” Jongin’s voice wobbles. “We’re really good friends.”

What follows is a long, stretch of heavy silence, and when Jongin lifts his head, Lu Han is staring at him with an incomprehensible expression on his face. Jongin’s thoughts spin, and his chest rumbles.

“I mean,” Jongin says, quietly. “That’s what I want us to be. I think Kyungsoo hyung… I think he wants that, too.”

Lu Han’s eyes morph into a look of understanding, with a touch of sadness in them. “Remember what I said about wanting a lot of things?” he says. He puts a warm hand over Jongin’s, and helps the younger man loosen his hold on his pen before it breaks under his grip. “It’s okay, Jonginnie,” he says. “You’re only starting.”

“Am I?” Jongin wonders out loud. He blinks rapidly. He thinks back on Kyungsoo, standing over Jongin as the autumn breeze settles in Yeouido, his small, calloused hand outstretched for Jongin to take. 

Jongin wants to hold onto it tightly and let the fireflies warm their skin, like they’re never supposed to let go. 

“I think I’m stuck,” Jongin whispers. He reclines back on his chair and sighs.

Lu Han scratches his nape. He looks over at the dozen notes and scrap papers, piling up in the trash. “Have you ever been in love before?” he asks.

Jongin lowers his eyes. “Yeah,” he says slowly. He studies the rhythm of his heart and looks back, and adds, “Maybe three times, I guess.”

Lu Han laughs. “That many, huh? Well, if it matters, I don’t think you’re stuck at all.” He stretches over and places back the carton lid over the half-eaten cake. “You’ve had it three times already. You’re already moving forward so just, I don’t know, man up or something.” He laughs again. “I’m going to stand by what I said and say you’re a douche who doesn’t want to put in more effort.”

“You think that’s going to do me any good?” Jongin says. He licks his lips. “Trust me, hyung. He’s not going to be happy to hear that I just suddenly…” He groans, lifting his arms over his eyes. “I’ll make everything so weird. We’re _both_ guys, Lu Han hyung.”

“By all means, hide under your bed,” Lu Han ripostes, rolling his eyes. “Listen, Jongin. You’re the only one who thinks it’s weird. It’s 2046. Read the news: two of Core Entertainment’s idols are dicks who like dicks, and five of them are into both. I’m taking you in for chronic narcissism if you think you’re the only anomaly.”

Has the times really changed that much? Back in gym class, when Jongin was a freshman in high school, their gazes weren’t allowed to linger too much in the locker room, and he’s seen lots of people get smashed pretty badly in the military camps. 

“Still,” Jongin says. He fiddles with the tail ends of his sweatshirt. “I don’t —I don’t know what to say.”

Lu Han nods to himself, and then smiles. “Well, I’m glad that you’ve found someone, either way.” He pokes Jongin with the butt of the fork again. “Tell him, don’t tell him — you’ll get around and figure out which one makes you happier. You’re not the dumbest person out there, I think.”

“Thanks so much,” Jongin says, snatching up the fork and poking it back to Lu Han’s gut. 

Lu Han turns to him, and an odd expression fleets over his face again. “I’m sorry, Jongin,” he says. “I don’t think I can help you with this one.” 

Jongin chuckles, stilted and scratchy and humorless. “You’ve already gotten me this job, so.” He swallows down a big one, hard. “I haven’t really thanked you properly yet.”

“Go do something about your fourth love, I guess. That’s a good way of saying you’re a grateful piece of ass,” Lu Han says. He proceeds to poke Jongin’s cheek with his finger (and not the fork, thankfully). “Frowning never really did suit you, Jongin.”

Jongin huffs, but Lu Han’s general good mood is really overpowering that he cracks a tiny smile. “Grand observation, but thanks,” he says. He tugs on his cuffs. “I’ll joke around even more if it helps you sleep better at night.”

“Real charmer, you.” Lu Han abandons the fork and kicks Jongin on the shin, not too hard, but it still makes Jongin laugh and whine in a much better kind of pain.

~O~

It’s snowing hard outside. Jongin couldn’t bring Mijung with him tonight, with most of the sludge on the roads piling up around the corners where he’s supposed to pass. He’s dressed up extra heavy today, and made sure that the gloves he wears doesn’t have any holes in them unlike last time.

He’s at the bar with Junmyeon and some other guy named Kim Jongdae, who has sharp cheekbones and high-pitched laughs and sings rock songs and power ballads at eight. He’s incredibly handsome, in that jolly, feverish way.

“And you’re more of a brusque kind of handsome,” Jongdae shoots back, when Jongin tells him this. “Just don’t blush and pout a lot and you’ll fool all the girls into thinking you’re one of those dark, brooding assholes who surprisingly has a heart of gold.”

Junmyeon smiles. “I think the blushing and the pouting are doing quite well.” He nods over a small group of girls just behind them, and Jongin ducks his head as soon as he can. “We got more regulars ever since Jongin came in.”

“Hyung,” Jongin groans out, and Jongdae and Junmyeon laugh in unison.

“You got any good ones for us, Jongdae?” Junmyeon says, and Jongdae flashes them both a grin.

“You bet,” Jongdae chirps. “You heard about the new pub that opened just west of GS25? ‘Round Paris Baguette?”

Junmyeon looks startled. “A pub? You can’t open one there — there’s a temple right across the street.”

Jongdae nods. “Exactly. Apparently, this one’s got backup from the local government. Word’s got out that the owner’s part of a local drug ring, and he’s _huge_ , way, way up there in the market.” He shrugs. “Most of the folks don’t care, anyway. The temple’s rundown, and nobody goes there for offerings anymore.”

Chanyeol hustles in with their drinks in hand and places three olives in Junmyeon’s martini. “That’s not good, Jongdae-yah. That’s just depressing,” he says.

Jongdae chuckles. “Can’t get anything ‘good’ from the newspapers these days, honestly. Or tabloids.” He pops his lips. “How about the scouts coming here? You guys heard about that one, right?”

Chanyeol’s abnormally large ears perk up at that. “Scouts?” he says, leaning closer. “What do you mean?”

“Talent scouts.” There’s an unspoken “duh” at the end of Jongdae’s sentence. “Saw the manager and a couple of guys from PBS Entertainment checking out the line-up for the next few weeks.” He gets a look at their stunned faces, and laughs merrily. “We’re not supposed to get all moony-eyed, though. We’re too old to be trainees. Especially you, Junmyeon hyung. You’re already married.”

“I wasn’t saying I was interested.” Junmyeon laughs. His laugh, like his singing voice, is quiet, subdued. “But you’ve never exactly looked your age, Jongdae. You could get a shot at this. Besides, haven’t you always wanted to be an idol?”

Jongdae seems pleased with that, but he shrugs. “Nah. PBS always makes their idols wear black jumpsuits like they’re going skydiving for coal. Black is ugly as hell. Now pink, _that’s_ a color.”

Chanyeol grins and tilts his head to his right, and Jongin sees Kyungsoo coming in from the restroom. “You go tell that to his face,” he challenges.

Kyungsoo takes a stool next to Jongin’s, and Jongdae instantly pipes, “Black is fucking ugly”. Kyungsoo considers him for a moment, and then whacks him at the side of his head. They all laugh.

“Heard about the scouts, Kyungsoo?” Chanyeol says as he slides him a beer fresh from the tap.

Kyungsoo grimaces at his mug as an answer, and Junmyeon chuckles in understanding. “We’ll skip that day, yeah?” the elder says, patting Kyungsoo on the head.

“What’s with hyung and talent scouts?” Jongin says, and instantly regrets asking. He can see Kyungsoo’s shoulders go rigid at the corner of his eye.

Nobody else seems to notice. Chanyeol just laughs his booming laugh and says, “Kyungsoo’s biggest fan is a scout from PBS. She used to come here to Club JJ all the time to watch him sing.”

Jongin’s hand freezes over the tray of peanuts. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asks Kyungsoo. His tone didn’t come out as light as he wanted.

“No. Never was,” Kyungsoo says. He chugs down his beer in one go.

Jongdae leans his head on Kyungsoo’s shoulder, snorting. “You’ve always liked Joohyunnie, Kyungsoo.” He curls his fingers around Kyungsoo’s mug and moved it away. “Easy there, tiger. You’re not supposed to walk out of the bar drunk under this weather.”

Kyungsoo makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. “I never said I liked her,” he replies, tone as flat as the Hadong countryside, but Jongin’s gut blisters with anxiousness.

Junmyeon catches on to Kyungsoo’s mood, and changes the subject for him, “Do you think Park Minki will win this year?”

Chanyeol and Jongdae easily join in on the latest crack in politics, but Jongin can’t bring himself to listen. Kyungsoo is so still beside him.

Jongin hesitates before bringing up a hand to Kyungsoo’s thigh. He can feel his own skin heat up, and Kyungsoo’s dark eyes snap up to meet his, wide and penetrating.

“Do you want to go?” Jongin says. “Maybe the sleet has stopped.”

It takes a while for Kyungsoo to nod in response. “Yeah, I guess.” His voice cracks.

They duck out of the bar area and slip pass the bouncer. Snow still falls from the sky, but the winds have quieted down, making it easier for Jongin and Kyungsoo to journey on home. Jongin shivers once in a while, but Kyungsoo resolutely keeps him close, tucking in Jongin’s ears in his hat every time it starts sticking out. The ball of warmth on his side is comforting enough to dampen down the wave of uneasiness that claws in Jongin’s throat.

As they approach a CU convenience store, Jongin thinks back on the way Kyungsoo had quaffed down his beer, and speaks up, “Do you still want to drink? It’s okay if you want to. I mean, I can cart you all the way back.” A couple of canned beers might warm Kyungsoo up and loosen him a little.

Kyungsoo licks his chapped lips, and Jongin’s fingers curl into a fist inside his coat pockets. “I’m heavier than I look,” he answers after a while, and breathes in. “It’s okay, Jongin. I think I’m alright now.”

Jongin goes quiet. This isn’t how he expected their night would be; maybe he should stop expecting things, when it comes to Kyungsoo.

Jongin can feel his heart rate pick up. “Is she pretty?” he says out of the blue. 

Kyungsoo adjusts his gloves as he looks over at Jongin. He must’ve seen something in the younger’s face, and he replies, “Mhmm. Very.”

Jongin coughs loudly. “How… how did you two meet?”

“We were classmates in high school,” Kyungsoo says. “She sat across from me when we were in our second year. We were friends.”

“Cheolsa said you lost touch with your friends in high school.” Jongin shudders when the breeze picks up at a curb. He burrows himself more in his coat.

Kyungsoo sniffs. “You and Cheolsa talk about me behind my back?” he says, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “You two are such gossips.”

“Besides tea, you’re the only one we have in common,” Jongin points out. His stomach churns wildly. “Did you love her?”

Kyungsoo glances up at him. “What?”

“This Joohyun person. Did you love her?”

Kyungsoo chews on the inside of his cheek and turns skyward. He sighs. “I thought I did,” he says, very quietly. “You don’t know a lot about yourself when you’re twenty, apparently.”

Kyungsoo’s eyes are dark and gloomy as he looks ahead, and Jongin understands now. 

“You broke her heart,” Jongin breathes out.

Kyungsoo’s gaze flickers back to the ground, and he shoots Jongin a pensive look before smiling. “You’re never going to spare me from anything, are you?” he says, and then frowns deeply. “I guess so. She didn’t talk to me after I said I wasn’t exactly keen on becoming her boyfriend.” He croaks out a laugh. “Not that I even bothered to reach out. I just hid.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be fair to her if you, umm,” Jongin fumbles. His throat is getting clogged up, from the cold weather. 

“Maybe,” Kyungsoo says. He grins somewhat manically. “She gave me a chocolate, one of those homemade ones they give during Valentine’s Day, and I acted like the biggest douchebag ever so that I wouldn’t be able to take it.” 

Jongin shakes his head. “I don’t believe it.”

“You should.” And Kyungsoo looks glum again, shoulders hunched in guilt. “Mostly I was thinking about my sister when I said no, but I…” He gives Jongin a fleeting look, and then proceeds to tuck all the longer strands of his hair that fell out of his beanie.

Jongin nudges him lightly. “What, hyung?” 

Kyungsoo yawns, and stretches out his hand to the starless sky. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. He curls his fingers around the moon, like he’s trying to catch it. “It just didn’t feel right, that time. Saying yes, when I felt like I was waiting for something else.”

They pass by an intersection, and wait along with the rest of the pedestrians for the stoplight to turn red. In the morning, the boutique fronts are lined with smiling saleswomen bowing and politely inviting the passers-by to come inside their shop. Now, most of them are getting ready to close.

Jongin trudges past a glaring streetlamp, and says, “You should give her more credit, hyung,” he says. He touches Kyungsoo’s back, and Jongin watches as his shoulders slowly unfurl. “Girls are much tougher than they look. I mean, look at Cheolsa.”

Kyungsoo smiles after a minute. “They are,” he says. “You’ve never turned down a girl before?”

Jongin replies with a quick, “No” and Kyungsoo chuckles. 

“For some weird reason, I believe you,” Kyungsoo says. “Never lied, never swore, never broke anyone’s heart either.” He laughs again, a happy one. “I feel like a grade A asshole, standing right next to you.”

Jongin smiles back, and he can’t help himself. He slides his fingers around Kyungsoo’s waist, so that their sides are pressing together. “Let’s see if you can soak up my niceness via osmosis,” he says, shivering again as the sparks take over. “It’s so cold now, hyung.” There’s no one in the streets but them and the sparks and the rusting streetlamps and the icy pavements.

“Walk faster, then,” Kyungsoo says offhandedly, but he lets Jongin lead the way.

~O~

For Cheolsa’s birthday, they celebrate in an Italian restaurant called Il Alpi, a fancy restaurant downtown, north of the river. The entire area is riddled with quaint cafés and luxury boutiques that got Jongin raising his eyebrows — everything smells old but rich, and it’s like Europe threw up all over the tiny community. He wonders how Junmyeon got their reservations.

A waitress hands them the menu, and Jongin flushes as he goes over the entrées.

“Hey.” Jongin flicks Kyungsoo the menu. “I don’t know anything in this.” Everything’s in _Italian_ , and no pictures.

Kyungsoo smiles sheepishly, peering over his own menu. “Me neither,” he says. He taps Cheolsa on her shoulder, who’s busy PM-ing her friends via Taggle. “Hey, Cheol. Mind picking for us?”

Cheolsa snickers and rolls her eyes. She inspects the menu for a minute, and says, “Oooh. I want this one!” She turns to the waitress. “One prosecco, please!”

“That’s our special white wine, ma’am,” the waiter says dutifully. “I’m afraid you’re not that old to drink yet.”

“Okay. Maybe I’ll just…” Kyungsoo’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to comprehend whatever’s in the menu by sheer will, and the waitress takes pity on him and says, “Our risotto is the most popular first course, and filet mignon and roasted gioannone chicken are our best sellers.”

Kyungsoo looks hilariously relieved. “Alright. We’ll have risotto and the one with the, umm, chicken, please.”

Cheolsa pouts. “Aww, what about my prosecco? No fair. You drink when it’s your birthday.”

“You’re going to your friend’s house after this, right? You’re not going over there drunk,” Kyungsoo says firmly.

The waitress smiles after she finishes listing down their order. “Your daughter has impeccable pronunciation already,” she tells Kyungsoo. “What a smart girl.”

Kyungsoo’s mouth gapes as his ears go pink. Thankfully, Cheolsa’s the better Do, and says, “I’m not his daughter. He’s my oppa!” She giggles. “And I’m in the fourth grade, so they teach us Italian already!”

The waitress looks shell-shocked. She glances at Kyungsoo and Jongin quickly, and bows. “Oh. My apologies,” she says, and immediately backs away.

Awkward silence blankets the air as Cheolsa turns back to PM-ing her friends and giggling, until a new waitress comes back with their meals.

~O~

After dropping Cheolsa to sleepover to her friend’s house in Hapjeong, they head back to Jongin’s apartment for a quick nap, both passed out on the couch with their bellies full as the remote dangles in Jongin’s fingertips. Kyungsoo wakes up at around five in the afternoon, and Jongin follows two hours later at the sound of ceramic clattering over the kitchen table.

“Hyung, what are you making?” Jongin says drowsily, rubbing his eye. Kyungsoo’s cap is lying abandoned somewhere in the living room, so his hair falls right above the tips of his eyelids. Jongin inches closer, but ultimately decides to drop his hand.

“Nothing Italian,” Kyungsoo replies, and sheds a spoon of butter on the skillet. He dumps the sliced onion leaves and rice next. It surprising that Kyungsoo knows where Jongin keeps his knife set (inside the ceiling cabinets, out of sight), and somehow, it’s also not surprising at all.

Jongin shakes his head and lets out a laugh, pulling out the plates from the dryer and setting them at the table.

They dine mostly in silence, until their wristwatches beep and they key in to find that Cheolsa has sent them pictures of her slumber party with her friends. She dyed her hair temporarily to purple, and took selfies next to gigantic pizzas and sparkling sodas in hopes of making her oppas jealous that she’s hanging out with the cool kids.

“If only she knows we spend Saturday nights in the swankiest bar in Hongdae.” Jongin snorts, and Kyungsoo laughs, a deep, husky one.

“You still kinda talk funny sometimes, Jongin,” Kyungsoo says. “I’m sure no one from this century says ‘swanky’ anymore.”

“It only fell out of fashion for a decade, hyung, don’t exaggerate.” Jongin reaches out for the bowl of buttered rice. “But umm, is it really weird?”

“It’s weird as hell,” Kyungsoo says. “It’s fine. I like it.” He grins, and Jongin’s heart just — _stops_.

Jongin hastily looks away, and makes a random comment about Kyungsoo’s oversized sweaters, which the elder just laughs off. He gets to clear his head and stop his hands from shaking when they fall back to their easy silence again. They clean up and wash the dishes, and settle them inside the dryer.

The back of their hands bump as they towel off, and Jongin, without thinking, wraps his fingers around Kyungsoo’s wrist.

Kyungsoo jumps. “Jongin —” He goes cross-eyed and blinks. 

Jongin can count all the moles on Kyungsoo’s face, on his neck, at this distance. His fingertips thrum with electricity as he watches the pink swirl on Kyungsoo’s cheeks, and it takes all of his self-control to step back a little.

Jongin can’t take this anymore.

“Kyungsoo hyung,” Jongin says. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Kyungsoo’s chest isn’t moving, so Jongin lets go and steps back even further. Only then does Kyungsoo breathe out and say, “Y-yeah?”

Jongin gulps. His hands are trembling again. “I need to show you something,” he says, and leads him to his room. He can feel Kyungsoo boring holes at his back as he crouches at his dresser and pulls out a small, dusty coffer made out of oak. He takes the key from the bottom of his sock drawer and sticks it in the key hole.

Kyungsoo makes an incomprehensible noise when Jongin lifts the lid up.

Coins from the 1960s. Newspaper clippings. Textile samples from when Jongin was Min Taeil, and wandered around the rural areas during his retirement. They’re all from a long time ago, but still well-preserved. It’s a little disorganized, since Jongin never thought that he’d be showing this to anyone at all.

“You collected all these stuff?” Kyungsoo says in awe as he peeks at the yellowing pages of Changhun’s drawing notebook. “They look very old.”

“They are,” Jongin says, willing his voice to sound steady. “When I was fifteen, I ran away from home and dug this out from Jayu Park. I was lucky that my hiding place hadn’t seen that much renovation since it was built.” He tries for a smile. “This is kind of like a time capsule, hyung. I keep it around so it’ll be easier for me to remember.” 

Kyungsoo stares at him in bewilderment. “I… I don’t understand,” he says.

Jongin takes out a newspaper cut out from January 1, 1962. It’s torn at the sides, but still readable. “You and I met before,” he says, drawing out all the consonants carefully. “Your name used to be Lee Jinsung, and you were fourteen. I was Min Taeil, thirty-two, and I was a doctor at that time. We met after your mother gave birth to your brother, and you gave me this list of all her allergies and —” Jongin cuts himself off when Kyungsoo’s eyes start bulging out of its sockets. “That was actually the second time we met,” he continues. “The first time, I never got your name.”

Kyungsoo keeps on gaping at him, stunned, and Jongin summons up all his courage and presses a photograph to Kyungsoo’s palm.

It’s a picture of Changhun with Halmeoni at the other end of the table. Changhun is holding up his winning Go-Stop card over his forehead and grinning, and Jongin recalls Miran urging Halmeoni to try to keep her eyes whenever the flash goes off.

“I was Park Changhun when we met again for the third time,” Jongin says, as Kyungsoo looks back at him with wide eyes. “You were Eunchae, and I came by to the facility every Sunday so we could play.” Something big and heavy starts pressing against Jongin’s chest, and he finds it hard to breathe again. “You stayed as my best friend, even after you were gone,” he says softly.

“Jongin, what are you —” Kyungsoo scrambles back. He looks so frightened. “What are you saying? Is this some kind of prank?” His lips quiver. “This isn’t funny.”

Jongin removes the photograph from Kyungsoo’s hand and replaces it with his own. He takes Kyungsoo’s left hand too, entwines his fingers around them.

_You have to touch him_ , Margaret had said.

Jongin squeezes Kyungsoo’s hands as hard as he can, and just like that, a big, ball of yellow light bursts out from their bodies, and it trickles into tiny fireflies, showering every space in the room.

Kyungsoo yelps loud and moves to take his hands back, but Jongin doesn’t let him. He squeezes them again, and the lights start circling around them so fast that it makes Jongin slightly dizzy.

“Did you _feel_ that?” Jongin says desperately, his chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon. “Hyung, please tell me you felt that. _Please_.”

Kyungsoo’s trembling from head to toe, and his skin feels charged and hot against Jongin’s palm. “I… Jongin, I don’t…”

Something claws up from Jongin’s rebelling stomach, to his lungs, to his throat, and Jongin can’t feel anything but the rapid swelling of his heart.

So this is what Margaret had meant, why she kept telling him to give up. If given a choice, Jongin would throw away his one shot at Oasis to have all of Kyungsoo even for just one lifetime. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jongin says, his voice wet and strained. He holds Kyungsoo by the shoulders and leans forward. “I’m so, so sorry, hyung.” He cups Kyungsoo’s right cheek and presses their lips together.

Jongin’s breath stutters as he nips at the seams of Kyungsoo’s still mouth, moving his hand down to clasp around Kyungsoo’s nape. Suddenly, Kyungsoo parts his lips and starts kissing back, his fingers curling at the sleeves of Jongin’s shirt.

And then everything’s on _fire_ — Kyungsoo’s fingers trail down to his forearms, and Jongin’s insides explode, and his skin is in flames. Jongin tightens his hold on Kyungsoo’s neck and kisses him more fiercely, like this is his last chance and he’s going to die, and it really feels like he is. He’s dying in Kyungsoo’s arms as his whole body blazes, and Jongin has waited four lifetimes for this —

The floodgates break all at once, and there’s a familiar rush of white that sweeps in and roars against the hundreds of feelings inside of him. The white spreads and spreads, and the chain coiled up in Jongin’s gut loosens and springs. 

It then latches itself around a frantic, beating heart.

Kyungsoo goes absolutely still as Jongin’s cheeks start feeling wet. He leans back, and sees Kyungsoo’s lashes darkening with tears.

Jongin’s throat catches. “Hyung, I —” he stammers, but Kyungsoo’s already standing up and charging towards the hallway. 

In his haste, Kyungsoo bumps into one of the tables as he scrambles out of the living room, and a vase breaks.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” Kyungsoo cries out. “I’m sorry, I…” Hot tears stream down his cheeks as he takes his coat slung on the couch. “I’m sorry, I can’t…”

“Kyungsoo hyung,” Jongin whimpers as he stands by the hall, but Kyungsoo’s already swung the door wide open. The wind from outside whips at them harshly, and the cold seeps in and snuffs out the fire that had been there a second ago.

Kyungsoo lowers his head hides his eyes over his cap. He lets the winter envelop his body and shuts the door tightly behind him without looking back.

~O~

He arrives at work at nine, on the dot, and designs enough cards to keep Minseok happy for a whole year. The one with the rabbit and ice sculptures proved to be this season’s best seller, the racks emptying as soon as Minseok’s other helpers file them out for display. Once, Jongin spills mushroom soup all over his desk, but he’s otherwise okay most of the time.

It’s when he gets home that the day starts to drag.

Jongin peruses old books about mythology and reads about the discovery of the Americas and the science in alchemy. He pores over work until his head turn, and ponders about all the things that seem so much smaller than what keeps him so awake at night —

He misses Kyungsoo.

Jongin checks on his e-mail once in a while — no messages — and walks his dogs around if the weather allows it. He draws all over his notebooks and then stops midway when he realizes that he’s been doodling the exact same thing all along —

He really misses Kyungsoo.

Jongin falls asleep on his desk, and his brain goes over the memories of them together. Sometimes Kyungsoo is Lee Jinsung, sometimes he’s Halmeoni, and sometimes he’s the nameless staff sergeant. Most of the time, though, he’s Do Kyungsoo, who laughs at how Jongin keeps losing his things all at once, and Jongin — Jongin feels like he’s lost to him…

Jongin really, really loves Kyungsoo.

In his dreams, Jongin can let the fireflies swarm all over them, and he can imagine that Kyungsoo would feel the same way, and yearn for the same things that Jongin wishes they could have, once they’re together. In his waking hours, Jongin wonders if things could’ve gone differently if he hadn’t told Kyungsoo anything.

There’s a lot of space in Jongin’s head for longing and regret. After all, he really now has too much time in his hands.

~O~

Winter clouds roll by a week before Christmas, and the sunlight filters into his apartment. Jongin stares at the ceiling and lets his fingers be liked clean by Jjangu as he waits for lunch hour to come around.

Monggu joins in on the licking and whines at his lazy owner. Jongin groans.

“Come on. You already ate two hours ago,” Jongin says. Monggu bunts his muzzle on Jongin’s thighs, and he sighs. “Why are you all making this so hard for me?” he complains, and gets up to scour the living room for the dog’s food bowl.

Jongin throws in a decent amount of kibbles, and Monggu immediately digs in. He chuckles despite himself.

His wristwatch suddenly beeps. He left it on the couch, and Jongin dashes back to check who’s calling. It’s an unknown number, so he disables the face viewing option and picks up. “Hello?”

“Ahh, Jongin-ah?” a deep voice says. “It’s me.”

“Chanyeol hyung?” Jongin says in surprise. “How did you —”

“Get your number?” Chanyeol laughs warmly. “I have my ways. Oh right, I passed by the store yesterday and bought your card. The one with the pretty bows and the snowman. The kid at the counter told me you weren’t there, though.”

Jongin sinks back on the couch. “Oh. Sorry. I don’t work during the weekends, Chanyeol hyung, and yesterday was Saturday.”

“Yep. It was definitely Saturday,” Chanyeol says. There’s a sound of people chattering coming from the receiver, and it gets louder as the minute ticks by. Perhaps Chanyeol’s outside and is doing some holiday shopping. “Say, Jonginnie. You haven’t been coming by the club lately. We’re all wondering how you are.”

It seems that the light from the windows are not enough to dispel the chill that lurks within the living room. Jongin huddles with his knees pressed against his ribs. “I’m sorry if I haven’t watched your shows for the past weeks. I… I wasn’t feeling well.”

“You too, huh?” Chanyeol says. “Kyungsoo’s said the same thing. Maybe you guys have been struck with the same flu virus or something —” The rest of his words get smothered by the Korean rendition of _Jingle Bells_ in the background.

He eventually resurfaces. “So how is he?” Chanyeol says.

“I don’t know,” Jongin answers. “I haven’t talked to Kyungsoo hyung for a while either.”

There’s a long pause from the other line, and Jongin can almost see his face pale as he waits. Chanyeol’s the type of person who never lets the silence settle for too long.

And then, Chanyeol speaks up again, “Have you watched _Skynet_ yet, Jongin?”

“Er, no. Not yet. I really don’t go out that much to watch movies.”

“My sister says it’s great! The CG leaves a lot to be desired, but the _actors_ —” He goes on and on about the cast and the plot, listing critics’ opinions by importance. He says them all so fast that it leaves Jongin with no time to think. “There’s the director, too. And you can never go wrong with Christian Tampa.”

“That sounds great, hyung,” Jongin says.

“Are you free tonight? You should watch it with me and Jongdae.” Jongin can hear the grin in Chanyeol’s voice. “It’ll be awesome!”

It’s actually… pretty fine with Jongin. “Alright,” he says. He lets Chanyeol ramble on some more about the movies on his watchlist, before hanging up.

~O~

Jongdae hyung and Chanyeol hyung are the perfect movie companions, though they can get pretty loud inside the theater house. Jongdae buys them the largest popcorn from the snack bar, and tells Jongin about his family back in Jeolla. And Chanyeol seems to always have very firm opinions about the themes and the lighting, and he gets all of the British indie bands that featured in the movie’s soundtrack right.

“He could’ve just hacked into the mainframe and shut down all those evil androids,” Chanyeol complains as they exit the cinema.

Jongdae laughs. “But that wouldn’t leave much of a plotline for the sequel,” he reasons.

Kyungsoo’s somewhat different from them, when it comes to movies. He’ll stay quiet throughout, and just say “it’s good” or “it’s horrible” if it is, no questions asked.

Jongin shakes his head fiercely. “I should go home,” he says, and smiles at them. “It was really cool movie. Thanks.”

Jongdae and Chanyeol share a look, before beaming back at the younger. 

“Let’s watch Zombie Mayhem next week, yeah? You free this Christmas Eve?” Jongdae says.

“Yeah.” Jongin hails a cab and waves goodbye.

He takes a quick shower as soon as he gets home, and then face-plants himself on his bed. He presses his nose on his pillow and inhales until it doesn’t hurt that much to breathe.

Jongin’s head throbs. He’s been having periodic bouts of migraine lately. He wills himself to fall asleep and forget about it all.

~O~

The cardboard boxes Jongin has just stacked in the garage suddenly topple over, losing their center of gravity, and all of the things Jongin had meticulously packed spills all over the floor like sour milk. After the crash comes an awful wailing in the living room, and Jongin stops dead in his tracks — it’s Cheolsa.

He runs to the kitchen to find Cheolsa sobbing miserably.

“Kyungsoo oppa,” Cheolsa cries. She looks younger than Jongin remembers, perhaps around six or seven. “Mom and Dad won’t be back for my birthday.” 

_Kyungsoo oppa?_ Jongin thinks, but then he watches in horror as his hand launches to rub soothing circles against Cheolsa’s back. In fact, it’s not his hand. The fingers are too short, and the nails are bitten down to the bed.

“They’ll probably be back next year, just wait,” Jongin says, but it’s not his voice. It’s Kyungsoo’s.

Cheolsa doesn’t take this as well as he hopes and continues crying. Jongin, feeling lost, hides back in the garage. He dials all of his Cheolsa’s friends’ numbers and tells them that the party is cancelled. Lastly, he hesitates over Joohyun’s number, his thumb hovering over the green button before finally giving in.

“Hello?” a female voice says.

“Joohyun—” Jongin starts. His voice cracks in the middle. He clears his throat. “Joohyun, it’s me.”

“Oh. Kyungsoo…”

Jongin waits, but nothing comes. Maybe this Joohyun person is waiting. A thought suddenly flashes through Jongin’s mind’s eye, and he sees a beautiful girl with silky black hair and a heart-shaped face crying herself to sleep in his arms.

"The party’s cancelled,” Jongin finally says after a long moment. He picks up the heavy practical gear design book that had fallen from the box and slots it back to the shelves. 

There’s a slight pause before Joohyun answers, “I wasn’t planning on going.” There’s no malice in her tone. “But tell Cheolsa I wish her a happy birthday.”

“Alright,” Jongin says. “Joohyun?”

“Yes?”

Jongin bites his bottom lip. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

The silence is longer this time. It seems that Joohyun is measuring everything she’s going to say, up to very last breath.

Joohyun exhales, and the line cackles. “You’re still going to sing with Chanyeol-ssi at the club?”

“Yeah.” Jongin rubs his face with his palm. He doesn’t know why his eyes are starting to burn. “Will I see you there?” 

“Don’t worry, Kyungsoo,” Joohyun says, and her voice sounds sad. “You won’t.”

…

Jongin’s eyes snap open, red-rimmed and sore, like he’s been crying in his sleep the whole time. He sits up straight, and notices that his pillows are wet.

He turns on the nightlight and inspects his hand under the lamp. It looks the same now. He yawns, and it’s his voice that comes out from his mouth. But the bile that rises up to his throat doesn’t belong to him, and the ancient ache in his chest isn’t meant for him at all.

Jongin finally knows how it feels like to break someone else’s heart.

~O~

Every night, Jongin gets a new dream. He anticipates them now, and they come in faster progression and gets even more vivid as Jongin dives into the ocean of memories. When it’s time to sleep, he closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he sees everything the way Kyungsoo saw them. Sometimes he hears Kyungsoo’s thoughts, and they can get pretty amusing, like the way he refers to calling Chanyeol an “obnoxious dickhead” with varying degrees of fondness. They make Jongin laugh when he remembers them in the morning, a cup of jasmine tea in hand.

There are moments too, when Jongin wakes up crying silently in his sleep, like that first night. Like that time he dreamt he was Jinsung, and felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. And there was that time he dreamt he was Halmeoni, dying alone. 

The dams are opening as Jongin gets transported from one lifetime to the next. He gets to know Kyungsoo and Jinsung and Halmeoni, night by night. It’s almost enough.

The memories are here, but Kyungsoo is gone. Jongin doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do without the both of them.

~O~

It’s Christmas Eve. Jongin styles his hair just for the occasion, since Chanyeol and Jongdae promised to bring him to the best parts of the city after Zombie Mayhem, and there would be lots of bright lights and people dressed all fancy.

He’s made himself mac n’ cheese and crispy baked chicken with peas on the side. He gets to eat only half of the portion for each, so he places them on separate Tupperwares and lays them on the table.

Jangga and Jjangu circle the couch, and Jongin leaps towards them and smothers them with kisses. “Merry Christmas, you two. Now, keep this place safe while I’m gone.” He chuckles and looks around. “Where’s Monggu?”

Jongin eventually finds Monggu whinnying longingly at the leashes by the door, and he laughs. “Sorry, kiddo. It’s too cold out so I can’t take you with me.” He ruffles the toy poodle’s russet hair. “Tell you what, what if I bring you a large steak bone, huh? Would you like that?”

Monggu barks and licks the side of Jongin’s jaw. Jongin ruffles his hair again and pets his nose.

He’s reaching out for his coat when he starts feeling funny, his muscles coiling up. And then the doorbell rings.

When Jongin opens the door, he finds Kyungsoo’s standing in front of him, shoulders dusted with freckles of snow and nose pressed deep against the fleece of his aviator jacket. 

He eyes Jongin up and down. “You’re going somewhere?” Kyungsoo says, lips and cheeks pink. His voice is extra hoarse, like he hasn’t talked for months. 

“Jongdae hyung and Chanyeol hyung wanted us to watch zombies together,” Jongin says. He’s shivering all over, even with his coat on.

Kyungsoo sinks his front teeth on his lower lip, thinking. “Sorry. I thought you were staying in for— anyway.” He steps aside, and Jongin watches as he buries half of his face back again in his jacket. “I’ll just…”

“I’m not that really into zombies, hyung. I could cancel.” Jongin takes Kyungsoo’s hand and pulls him in. He closes the door once he gets Kyungsoo inside.

He lets himself drink Kyungsoo in for a moment. “You’re here,” he says. 

Kyungsoo turns to look at him. “Yeah.” He looks like he’s drinking in Jongin too.

The link in Jongin’s gut is tugging, _insisting_ , so Jongin steps closer and vows to follow wherever it leads him.

Kyungsoo is looking up at him now, with only a thin slice of air separating them from each other. The bright yellow lights start fluttering at the edges of Jongin’s vision, and a soft, pinkish hue creeps over the link.

Kyungsoo blinks rapidly, like he’s seeing the same things Jongin does. “We’re… we’re not crazy, are we?” he asks.

Jongin laughs out loud, all high and garbled and choked up. “If we are, would you care, hyung?” He sniffles.

Kyungsoo’s lips curl into a smile. “Not that much, I guess,” he says. He places his palm flat on Jongin’s chest, and the link explodes into dozens of colors.

“Are you sure?” Jongin asks, but Kyungsoo doesn’t respond. Instead, he wraps his arms around Jongin as tightly as he can, one hand snaking into Jongin’s hair while the other presses Jongin flush to his chest. 

Something inside Jongin ignites, and then he’s clutching back to Kyungsoo hard enough to leave bruises. They’re hugging each other tighter and tighter, and Jongin doesn’t want any of this to stop. 

“I saw you, Jongin,” Kyungsoo says. His shoulders are trembling hard. “In my sleep. You were always there, in my head, ever since we…” He swallows loudly.

“I hope you weren’t dreaming about me in a weird way,” Jongin says, and Kyungsoo leans back to shoot him a furious look.

“I can’t believe you went through all that,” Kyungsoo says, voice strangled. “You shouldn’t have kept your memories— the chances were so _low_.” He pinches the younger man by the shoulder. “You idiot. I can’t believe I’m in love with an utter idiot.” 

Jongin presses his nose to Kyungsoo’s cheek and smiles the widest he’s ever had. “We’re supposed to be together,” he says. “Since there’s no such thing as fate, I had to try.” He wants to go on hugging Kyungsoo the same way he feels his heart is being squeezed out of his chest right now.

The living room is a rainbow of bursting color, as Jongin cups his hand over the raging pulse on Kyungsoo’s neck. He kisses it, and waits for it to quiet. “I missed you so, so much,” he whispers. “You have no idea.”

Kyungsoo breathes in heavily. “We’re kind of bonded now, Jongin. I think I might have a clue.” He then laughs, dizzy, as the sparks charge in again and trickle down from their fingertips. 

The link lights up white, and gold, and Jongin relaxes to the sensation of Kyungsoo’s sure fingers over the small of his back. “And you missed me, too,” Jongin says with delight. It sparks again with flashes of quiet pink. “A lot, apparently.”

Kyungsoo hiccups. “God, I still can’t believe we’re…”

“You should say it, hyung,” Jongin says, and he loosens his grip a little so he can slide his lips over Kyungsoo’s. “Come on. Final challenge. We had five lifetimes to get it right.” After five lifetimes, they’ve finally connected the dots.

Kyungsoo hums and closes his eyes. “Soulmates,” he says, for the very first time, and Jongin tilts his head sideways to mesh their smiling lips together.

~O~

“There,” Kyungsoo says. He hoists himself up, wipes the sweat off his forehead and puts on his black cap again. “That good enough for you?”

Jongin pauses, considering, and Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “More to the left?” Kyungsoo says, pulling out the thought directly from Jongin’s head.

“Yeah,” Jongin says, and together, they lift up the bed to the far end of the wall, just behind the couple more cardboard boxes that they haven’t unpacked yet.

_Is it okay now?_ Kyungsoo thinks, too tired to speak, and Jongin yells back, _It’s perfect!,_ before launching himself towards the bouncy mattress.

“I have to hand it to you, hyung. You really got us a perfect view of the river,” Jongin says as he plops his elbows on the ledges of the window. “Now we can yell at the river goddess all day long.”

_We’re in a complex,_ Kyungsoo tells him. _We’ll get jailed for public disturbance._ He then smirks. _But feel free to reenact that one time you confessed your extreme loathing for corned beef anytime._

_You’re a joker,_ Jongin thinks back. He leans onto the newly refurbished wall and slides right next to Kyungsoo. _You think Cheolsa will like her new room if we paint it purple?_

“She’s changed her favorite color three times ever since she started middle school.” Kyungsoo shrugs. “It’s okay. She’s never been really the type to mind if we move as long as the people she loves is with her.”

Jongin grins. “And whose fault is that?” he says, winking.

“You were in on this too,” Kyungsoo says, quietly, and they both just stare at each other some more, their thoughts and feelings cascading back and forth as they go.  
Kyungsoo’s firm and warm beside Jongin’s shoulder, and Jongin’s hand lists to cup Kyungsoo’s face, and he presses a kiss to his temple.

Kyungsoo smiles, soft and sincere, and perhaps a bit tired from all the baggage lifting, and Jongin lowers his head to kiss him full on the lips. Their hands tangle over themselves, searching, as Kyungsoo angles his head and kisses deeper.

Jongin sucks on Kyungsoo’s bottom lip, and the other man lets out a strangled whimper. He bites down on it again, and Kyungsoo retaliates with a fierce press of his tongue at the roof of Jongin’s mouth. _Hyung_ , Jongin whines in his head, and Kyungsoo lets out a breathy chuckle of triumph in response.

It goes on for another full minute, and it’s a chorus of _Jongin’_ s and _Kyungsoo’_ s and _please_ ’s until Kyungsoo’s straddling Jongin, aligning his weight just above where their crotches meet. They kiss relentlessly, their mouths never parting, and then Jongin’s hand slides down from the curve of Kyungsoo’s neck to his navel—

_“Have strength, Jongin-ssi. Tonight will be a long battle.”_

_“Thank you, sir. I —I’ll do my best.”_

The bond lurches, and they both pull away, gasping.

“You remember?” Jongin says, breathing hard.

Kyungsoo nods in a daze. His eyelids flutter slowly, blinking back the fireflies away to clear his vision. “I was— I was a staff sergeant,” he says. “I was supposed to lead the troops back to safety, but I was shot, and…”

Jongin doesn’t let him continue from there. He reaches up to weave his fingers into Kyungsoo’s hair and slides their lips back together again. He feels Kyungsoo slowly unwind and melt into him, as the tightness in his gut begins to loosen, too.

“It’s alright. We’re already through it, and now we’re here,” Jongin says when they pull away for air. A thought occurs, and he says, “I never did learn your name, though. I always called you Handsome Staff Sergeant in my head.”

_I know. I can hear you_ , Kyungsoo tells him, laughing. “Yoon Jihae, at your service.” He breaks into a smile again, and Jongin is glad that he’s kept his promise.

…

[Epilogue]

…

The world is in flames when Kyungsoo opens his eyes.

For some reason, his clothes don’t catch on fire, and there’s no smoke to suffocate him and make his eyes water. Except for the blaze, everything is absolutely still.

He passes through the wall of fire just fine, and follows the only path without knowing where it leads. Kyungsoo’s head pounds, and he can’t make himself think clearly. The winding of the path seems eerily familiar, however, and so is the sound of wailing voices all around.

After a while, the path right where a huge table extends like in courtroom dramas. At the swiveling leather chairs, there are three people looking at him expectantly. They have folders in front of them, all labeled with _Yoon Jihae_ at the cover.

Kyungsoo can’t turn back since the path behind him has disappeared; he approaches them with caution.

“Ahh, he’s here! Always the first one to show, eh?” a man with a great white beard says— _Marco_ , Kyungsoo recalls suddenly, and then his brain starts drumming against his skull again. He rubs his temples, and Marco waves at him. “Don’t worry about the headaches, Jihae. It will pass. The way the memories come back in the afterlife can be very unsettling at first.”

“Jihae,” Kyungsoo tests the name, his tongue curling. Right. His name’s Jihae.

“Yes, yes, that’s you,” Marco looks very impatient. “Or would you rather us call you by your last life’s birth name? You seem to like it better.”

Kyungsoo is, for some unknown reason. “Umm, Jihae’s fine, I guess,” he says.

“So, mister Do Kyungsoo. You had a pretty good run,” another guy wearing thin ribbons on his white hair— _Thomas Jefferson_ , Kyungsoo’s brain helpfully supplies—comments as he leafs over the stack of papers in his folder. “To be quite honest, we’re kind of impressed.”

“Really?” 

A woman in a simple but elegant white dress nods. “You were Lee Jungeun, who unfortunately died a painful death at age forty-two. You were brought to life again as Lee Jinsung, son of an alcoholic father and a sickly mother and had too many siblings. And then you were Han Eunchae, a penniless photographer who had a long life, but no family or friends. And lastly, you were Do Kyungsoo,” she says, and then smiles. Kyungsoo thinks hard… and remembers. _Margaret Fuller._ “Who had a rambunctious sister fifteen years his junior to take care of while their parents took their whirlwind romance a tour around the world.”

“Basically people who you’d probably most likely see in a tragedy movie,” Thomas says. “Remarkably, all four of them are promising enough for Oasis alone. That usually doesn’t happen for reincarnates.” 

_Reincarnates,_ Kyungsoo thinks, and an unfathomable feeling overtakes him and rids him of breath. The wide smiles the judges give him tell him that he won’t be coming back to Earth for the sixth time around. He’s at his end.

His vision suddenly gets hazy and he staggers a few steps back — 

_I like your music it’s nice my mom’s allergic to strawberries I’ll see you next week Halmeoni I like calling you hyung better do you want to go out sometime you can always sing me to sleep I love you —_

Kyungsoo’s whole world spins. 

“I wasn’t alone, was I?” Kyungsoo muses out loud. Dark brown hair, warm, tawny skin, pouty lips, and a cheerful, blinding smile. His stomach sparks up. “I… I had someone,” he mutters. Kyungsoo had someone very, very important.

Marco bursts into a laugh, pleased. “Alright! Now we’re talking!” he cheers. 

Margaret smiles. “Close your eyes, Kyungsoo, and let yourself breathe. You’ll remember him better.”

Kyungsoo inhales and does what he’s asked.

…

When Kim Jongin had crawled out of the fire, a path of jagged rocks formed. But now, he’s here where the path has lead him—with Margaret, Thomas and Marco behind the massive mahogany table—and there’s no other way to go but forward.

Jongin feels nausea creep up at him as he takes three steps closer to where he’s supposed to stand, and waits for their judgment.

“So,” Margaret says. She doesn’t say anything more.

“Hello.” Jongin gulps. “And um, thank you. For everything.”

Margaret smiles eerily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“You had a really good life this time, I presume,” Thomas says. “Everyone was really excited to hear about your arrival.”

Jongin grows confused. “Does everyone here wish me to die early?” he asks, and earns a couple of chortles from Marco.

“You were definitely one of the main headlines for the higher-ups, and some of the guys down there,” Marco says. “You could also say that some of us got a little invested and watched over you very carefully.” He throws Margaret a teasing look.

The last one was a little creepy, but Jongin decides not to dwell on it. His head is hurting so much. “Am I getting punished?” Jongin says. This is the worst migraine he’s ever had in his entire lives.

Thomas laughs. “No, of course not. Your head is just catching up to the wonders of afterlife,” he says. “You had a rough two hundred years, Jongin. I’m sure you can handle it for a little longer.”

“I want to throw up,” Jongin says. “But something tells me that I can’t.”

“Ahh, Death.” Marco sighs dreamily. “Now you won’t ever have to run to the toilet ever again! Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Very,” Jongin agrees. He looks at the folders at the table with his name on them, all untouched. “So umm, what’s the verdict?”

Marco looks over at his fellow Gateway judges before turning to face Jongin again. “Well, we’ve already decided a long time ago.” He nods at Jongin solemnly. “You have more than proved your worth, Kim Jongin, four times. It’s time for you to rest.”

Jongin then stills, like he’s been doused with icy water all over, and his eyes dart everywhere nervously. “I think—I think I’m missing something—” _Oh_. He jumps a little on his spot when his thoughts suddenly race. “Where is he? Is he here?”

Margaret shakes her head. “He’s at the Isles already,” she says. “He’s waiting for you.”

~O~

They tell him that it never rains in the Isles, and that there’re always sun rays and clear skies and plenty of fresh air. Jongin likes the rain, though. The soft pitter-pattering against the roof and windows has always lulled him to sleep best, and the dreams he gets are smooth and comforting, leaving fuzzy imprints of happiness every time he wakes up.

And oh— Jongin remembers again, his voice. Jongin’s always liked it best at the foreground of summer drizzles, whenever he sang under his breath in the bedroom and thought that Jongin wasn’t listening to him. 

He roams around the Isles and picks up on the fragmented memories as he forges in deeper. Jongin chuckles when he sees an apple tree by the river, and recalls Saturday nights Jongin spent slicing apples and peeling the skin to form rabbit ears while his soulmate went over the movies they could watch.

“Is there something funny, stranger?” a voice asks, hauntingly familiar. 

Jongin turns at his heels quickly and gets dizzy in an instant. “Yeah,” he replies. 

And there it is, the heart-shaped smile. It’s not tired, like Jongin had expected, but happy. Hopelessly and utterly happy. “Mind sharing it to me?” he says.

Jongin definitely wants to. He has _lots_ to tell him, and eternity is a really long time to talk about things. He takes the man’s hand, squeezes it, and the fireflies come alive.

**~Fin~**

_Disclaimer: The first four news clips in this fic are excerpts from real articles. They belong to their respective authors and publishers, and they were used solely to frame the chronology of Jongin and Kyungsoo’s lives. Links to the articles can be found here:1, 2, 3, 4_


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